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diff --git a/43785.txt b/43785.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 81231ef..0000000 --- a/43785.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9121 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Ruth Erskine's Son, by Pansy and Isabella MacDonald Alden - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Ruth Erskine's Son - -Author: Pansy - Isabella MacDonald Alden - -Illustrator: Louise Clark - -Release Date: September 21, 2013 [EBook #43785] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUTH ERSKINE'S SON *** - - - - -Produced by Charlene Taylor, Ernest Schaal, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -book was produced from scanned images of public domain -material from the Google Print project.) - - - - - - - - - - [Illustration: "ERSKINE," SHE SAID EAGERLY, "WHAT DO YOU MEAN?" - _Page 91._] - - - - - RUTH ERSKINE'S SON - - - BY - PANSY - - AUTHOR OF "RUTH ERSKINE'S CROSSES"; "ESTER RIED'S - NAMESAKE"; "ESTER RIED YET SPEAKING"; "ESTER - RIED"; "DORIS FARRAND'S VOCATION"; "DAVID - RANSOM'S WATCH"; ETC., ETC. - - - _ILLUSTRATED BY LOUISE CLARK_ - - - [Illustration] - - - BOSTON - LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. - - - - - PANSY - TRADE-MARK - Registered in U. S. Patent Office. - - - Published, August, 1907. - - - COPYRIGHT, 1906, - BY LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. - - _All Rights Reserved._ - - RUTH ERSKINE'S SON. - - - Norwood Press - J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co. - Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. - - - - - CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I. WHIMS 1 - - II. "NEVER MIND, MOMMIE" 15 - - III. MAMIE PARKER 29 - - IV. WOULD SHE "DO"? 42 - - V. THE OLD CAT! 55 - - VI. IDEAL CONDITIONS 69 - - VII. "MOTHERS ARE QUEER!" 82 - - VIII. A SPOILED MOTHER 96 - - IX. SENTIMENT AND SACRIFICE 110 - - X. "SENTIMENTAL" PEOPLE 124 - - XI. "PLANS FOR A PURPOSE" 137 - - XII. ACCIDENT OR DESIGN? 151 - - XIII. WAS IRENE RIGHT? 164 - - XIV. THE GENERAL MANAGER 176 - - XV. LOOKING BACKWARD 189 - - XVI. FOR MAYBELLE'S SAKE 203 - - XVII. BUILT ON THE SAND 216 - - XVIII. JUSTICE OR MERCY? 229 - - XIX. ALONE 242 - - XX. THEY HATED MYSTERY 254 - - XXI. "A STUDY" 268 - - XXII. A LOYAL HEART 280 - - XXIII. PUZZLING QUESTIONS 293 - - XXIV. AN ALLY 306 - - XXV. A CRISIS 319 - - XXVI. A STRANGE CHANGE 331 - - XXVII. A RETROGRADE MOVEMENT 344 - - XXVIII. "SOMETHING HAD HAPPENED" 358 - - XXIX. RENUNCIATION 371 - - XXX. "TWO, AND TWO, AND TWO" 383 - - - - - ILLUSTRATIONS - - - "ERSKINE," SHE SAID EAGERLY, "WHAT DO YOU MEAN?" (PAGE 91) - _Frontispiece_ - - FACING PAGE - "WE WILL GIVE THEM ALL THE SLIP, MY DEAR" 62 - - "MY MOTHER ISN'T OLD, IRENE" 166 - - "I AM SORRY THAT I HATED YOU" 354 - - - - - RUTH ERSKINE'S SON - - - CHAPTER I - - WHIMS - - -AS a matter of fact the name of this story should be: Ruth Erskine -Burnham's Son. But there are those living who remember Ruth Erskine and -her memorable summer at the New York Chautauqua; and that name is so -entirely associated with those four girls at Chautauqua, and their after -experiences, that it seems natural to speak of her boy, Erskine, as Ruth -Erskine's son; although, of course, he was also Judge Burnham's son. - -The day on which she is again introduced to her friends was a dull one -in late autumn; the afterglow of sunset was already fading, and the -shadows were gathering fast. It was the hour that Erskine Burnham liked -best for the piano. He was at that moment softly touching the keys, -bringing forth harmonious sounds with the air of one not even hearing -them. - -He was a handsome boy. The promise of his early life,--during which time -the exclamation, "What a beautiful child!" was being continually -heard,--was being fulfilled in his boyhood. Friends of his father were -fond of assuring Ruth that the boy was his father's image; while her -friends were sure that no boy could be more like his mother. - -As for Ruth when she saw her son bending over his books, a lock of hair -continually dropping over his left eye and being continually flung back -with a gesture peculiar to Judge Erskine, she would say:-- - -"He is very much like his grandfather." - -As the boy grew older he laughed at all these opinions, and asked his -mother if she did not think it would be difficult for a fellow to have -any individuality who was strikingly like three people who were all, as -nearly as he could make out, strikingly unlike one another. - -This remark was one of the memories that came back to her as she looked -out at the swift-falling night, and listened to that musical strain -which was being played over and over and _over_. She seemed to be -watching the people who were hurrying homeward, glancing apprehensively -now and then at the sky; for despite the glow of sunset there were -premonitions of a coming storm, and already a few advance snowflakes -were beginning to fall. But Mrs. Burnham saw neither people nor -snowflakes; or rather she saw them without seeing. Her eyes were -swimming in tears that she did not intend to let have their way. Not as -girl or woman had Ruth Erskine Burnham been given to tears, although -there had been reason enough in her life for them. Since she had not -indulged them then, she did not mean to begin now that she was -middle-aged and her hair was being sprinkled with gray. - -She had been going over the story of the years with herself, that -afternoon, which might account in part for the dimmed eyes. It seemed to -her, looking back, that her chief mission in life had been to minister -at dying beds and follow as chief or almost chief mourner in funeral -processions. She had gone away back to the betrothed of her youth, and -added one more heavy sigh to the multitude that stood for a lost -opportunity. How entirely Harold Wayne had been under her influence! how -utterly she had failed him! And she had felt it only when she was -following him to the grave. Then those other graves, her father's and -Judge Burnham's daughters', Seraph and Minta, what strange sad memories -she had connected with both those graves that were not a year apart in -their making. And then their father had been laid beside them and they -two were left alone in the world, she and Erskine. - -He was not yet eighteen, but there were times when it seemed to his -mother that he was much older, and that he and she had been alone -together always. All these memories that, because it was an anniversary -of one of her bereavements, had been more vivid with her than usual that -day, trooped again about her as she stood in the waning light, -apparently intent on watching the outside world, in order to escape -being watched by her world, inside. - -To people who were acquainted with the girl, Ruth Erskine, it will not -seem strange that a look backward over her checkered life brought sombre -thoughts that were close to tears. - -Of the four girls who, years and years before when they were young and -full of courage, went to Chautauqua together and lived their eventful -summer and began their new lives together, hers had had the strangest, -saddest story; it had been marked by experiences so unlike the -commonplace that the world had stopped to look, and express its -astonishment. - -The unusual began with her father's strange revelations about that new -mother who yet was not new, but had been her stepmother for years. Was -ever daughter before called upon to receive a new mother in such way as -that? But why go over all that ground again? She too had been followed -to the grave, and no one of all Mrs. Burnham's friends had been more -sincerely missed and mourned. Then there was her sister, Susan Erskine. -Was ever heavier cross or greater blessing thrust into a life than that -girl represented to the girl Ruth Erskine? It had been one of her later -trials to give Susan up to China. She was sorely missed, but it had been -good for Erskine to have such a missionary Auntie as she made. And those -two strange girls Seraphina and Araminta Burnham. Could some writer put -into print the story of those two lives as it interlaced with hers, the -foolish world would call it fiction, and criticise it as unnatural. - -Over the early days of her widowhood Ruth Burnham knew better than to -linger. Though so many years had intervened that the little boy he left -had grown to young manhood, she still missed his father so sorely that -she could not trust herself to stay among those few precious months -before he went suddenly from her. - -She had been left, without even the warning of an hour, to bring up -their boy alone! It was from this form of her bereavement that she had -shrunken back most fearfully. Judge Burnham, with his life consecrated -to God, had seemed eminently fitted to guide the life of just such a boy -as theirs; but God had planned differently. - -And now, what people call the anxious years were gone, and she had kept -her boy. - -Yet the tears which she did not mean to shed were, in part, for him. She -knew better than most mothers seem to understand that there were still -"anxious years" to be lived through. - -They had lingered over the breakfast table that morning, discussing -certain questions that had been discussed before. - -"Mamma," the boy had said as he served her to fruit, "how came you to -have pronounced ideas about all sorts of things? Were you always so?" - -His mother laughed genially. - -"What a definite question for a lawyer to ask!" for Erskine had already -announced his intention of being a lawyer like his father and -grandfather. - -"What 'things' are supposed to be under consideration?" - -He echoed her laugh. - -"I was thinking aloud then," he said. "It often seems to me as though -you and I knew each other's thoughts. But just now I am thinking of one -of our argumentative subjects. In spite of the horror in which you have -brought me up of those bits of pasteboard called cards, I find that I -cannot feel precisely as you would like to have me, concerning them. I -used to. As a child nobody could be fiercer than I in their -denunciation; but I find that that was merely a reflex influence, and -not judgment. In spite of me nowadays they look meek and harmless; and I -was wondering how you and they came to be in such fierce antagonism. Was -my father of that mind?" - -"Am I fierce, Erskine?" - -He gave her a half-quizzical, wholly loving smile as he said gayly:-- - -"That of course is not the word to apply to the most charming of women, -but you know, dearest, that you are very much in earnest about all such -matters. Were you brought up in that way?" - -Mrs. Burnham shook her head. - -"No, when I was of your age, and younger, we played cards at home; and I -went to card-parties in our set very often. It was your Aunt Flossy who -set a number of us to thinking and studying and praying about such -matters." - -Erskine shook his head with pretended gravity. - -"I might have known it, mamma. Aunt Flossy isn't like people; in fact -she always seems to me a trifle out of place on earth." - -"I thought you were very fond indeed of your Aunt Flossy." - -"So I am; and I think I should be very fond of an angel from heaven; but -you see, when a fellow has to live on the earth, it is a trifle more -convenient to be like the other earth worms. All of which was suggested -by the fact that the Mitchells are to give a card-party next week. Very -select, you understand, only the choice few are bidden and I happen to -be one of them." - -Then, although his mother shrank from it, feeling that it did harm -rather than good to go again over ground that was familiar to both and -that was so clear to her and did not convince her son, he persisted in -arguing, and in trying to prove that her position was narrow and -untenable in these days. Throughout the interview he had been courteous -and winsome, as he always was with her, and had laughingly complimented -her more than once on her skill in argument; but for all that, she knew -he was entirely unconvinced, and felt that her hold on him was weaker -than when they had gone over the same ground before. The fact was, and -this mother knew it well, that the world and all the allurements for -which that phrase stands was making a hard fight for her handsome son -even so early in life, and there were times when she felt fearful that -in a sense it would win. It was not that she believed he would ever be -sorely tempted by any of the amusements or frivolities of life; he was -strong-principled and strong-willed, and certain, that might be called -main, points had been settled by him once for all. Yet none knew better -than did this woman of long and peculiar experience that it was possible -to maintain a high standing in the world and in the church and yet have -almost as little knowledge of that life hid with Christ in God which was -the Christian's rightful heritage as did the gay world around him. She -craved this separated life for Erskine, yet he was social in his tastes -and fond of being looked upon as a leader, and his mother knew it -already irked him to feel that in certain social functions he must -always be counted out. - -"There are so many of them!" he had said to her once, with as much -impatience in his tone as he ever gave to her. - -"A fellow could manage to indulge one or two whims, but you know, -dearest, you have at least half a dozen, and to humor them all will make -a rather conspicuous wallflower, I am afraid." - -Something very like that he had repeated that morning, and it had -colored his mother's day. She knew that the Mitchells were fond of -Erskine and would make vigorous efforts to secure him for their party. -It was hard, she told herself, that one so fitted to shine in cultured -circles of young people must so often be made to feel embarrassed and -out of place, and she wondered for the dozenth time that season if ways -of thinking about these things had changed, along with other changes. -Was she herself what Erskine, if he had made use of the modern slang, -might call a "back number"? "Still, his father, who had no such -prejudices as mine to deal with, grew very positive in his objection to -cards," she reminded herself, and sighed. If his father had lived, he -would have known just how to manage Erskine; this, at least, she pleased -herself by believing, ignoring the fact that in their son's early -boyhood the father had had many ways of managing, of which she did not -approve. This is a habit which we all have with our beloved dead. - -It was the memory of their morning talk that had led Mrs. Burnham to -appeal, that afternoon, to Mr. Conway when he dropped in for a social -chat. Mr. Conway was their new pastor; a brilliant, scholarly man, much -admired by old and young. Erskine in particular had been attracted to -him, and was decidedly of the opinion that in the pulpit he was a great -improvement on Dr. Dennis, even. Of course his mother did not agree with -this verdict, but she was wise enough to remember that the friends of -her girlhood could not be expected to be to her son what they were to -her. Yet Erskine was eminently fair and thoughtful beyond his years for -her. At the very time when he had so heartily indorsed Mr. Conway, he -had made haste to say:-- - -"Of course, mamma, there is a sense in which no one can ever equal Dr. -Dennis to us, and as for Aunt Marian her loss is irreparable." He held -carefully to the boyish custom of claiming his mother's girl friends as -aunts, and she liked it in him:-- - -"Nevertheless," he had added firmly, "as a preacher Mr. Conway is far -superior to Dr. Dennis." - -Despite his careful courtesy Erskine was at the age when wisdom is at -its height, and opinions as a rule are delivered autocratically without -any softening "I think." His mother, having often to make objections -from principle, had learned the art of being silent when she could, and -she had made no objection in words to his estimate of Mr. Conway. To a -degree she was in sympathy with it. She liked Mr. Conway and was glad -that he was so young that Erskine, being old for his years, could find -him almost companionable, and at the same time could be helped by him. - -Because of all these reasons she had been glad that Erskine was in, that -afternoon when Mr. Conway called. He was fond of calling there, and -playfully accused the two of being responsible for many neglected -families in his parish. She had kept herself almost quiet while Erskine -and their guest discussed books and music and men. They had many tastes -in common. Then Erskine had been urged to play, and his selection from -one of the great masters had chanced to be Mr. Conway's special -favorite; and then, Mrs. Erskine having studied how to do it in an -unstudied way, had skilfully turned the conversation into the channel of -her morning talk with Erskine; and before two minutes had passed would -have given much to be able to take back what she had done. - - - - - CHAPTER II - - "NEVER MIND, MOMMIE" - - -YET in thinking it over, this course had seemed to Mrs. Burnham -eminently wise. Mr. Conway was quite as much in touch with the -fashionable world as a clergyman could well be; he had been brought up -in its atmosphere and had turned from what were supposed to be very -alluring prospects to live the comparatively straitened life of a -minister of the gospel. His undoubted scholarship commended him -especially to a young fellow like Erskine who came of a scholarly line. -If, without being directly appealed to for advice, the minister could be -drawn into an expression of opinion about these questionable matters, it -would certainly help; and under her skilful management he expressed -himself; but behold, he was on the wrong side! At least he was not on -the side that Ruth Burnham, having been for years accustomed to the -pastorate of Dr. Dennis, had taken it for granted that he would be. - -There was, he assured her, something to be said on the other side of -that question. Of course he was opposed to all forms of gambling, but a -social game of cards in the parlor of a friend was innocent amusement -enough--much better than certain others he could name that seemed to -have escaped the ban of the over-cautious. He was really in earnest -about this matter. He considered that there was positive danger in -drawing the lines too taut. He knew a fellow in college who had been -very carefully reared in one of those very narrow homes where a card was -never allowed to penetrate, and where they looked in holy horror upon -the idea of his touching one elsewhere; but he hadn't been in college an -entire year before he spent half his nights at cards! and he went to the -bad as fast as he could. That, the clergyman believed, was what often -happened when young people were held too closely. That was by no means -the only instance which had come under his personal knowledge, and -indeed he believed that, of the two extremes, he feared the narrow the -more. Human nature was such that there was sure to be a rebound from -over-strictness, and the clearer, keener brained the victim was, the -more fear of results. There was much more of the same sort. Poor Ruth, -who had not meant to argue, and who had wished of all things to avoid -anything that would look in the least like a personal matter, tried in -vain to change the subject. Erskine, with an occasional mischievous -glance for her alone, led his pastor on to say much more than he had -probably intended at first. Not that he differed from him in the least; -on the contrary he took the role of an eager youth to whom it was a -vital matter to have the "narrowness" of his surroundings immediately -widened. - -Mrs. Burnham, disappointed and hurt, became almost entirely silent, and -when she finally walked down the hall with her departing pastor, felt no -wish to consult him about a matter on which she had intended to ask his -advice at the first opportunity. She had a feeling that it made little -difference to her what his advice was on any subject; yet she knew that -that was real narrowness and that she must rise above it. Such was the -condition of things on that evening in late autumn when she stood -looking out of the bay window at the swiftly gathering night and -appeared to be watching the passers-by through a mist of unshed tears, -while Erskine played exquisite strains of harmony. His mother, -listening, or rather letting the music melt unconsciously into her -being, felt peculiarly alone with her responsibilities. Who was she that -she should hope, alone and unaided, to battle successfully with the -temptations of this great wicked world full of yawning pitfalls -especially prepared for the feet of young men? How was she ever to hope -to guide a boy like Erskine successfully through its snares, without -even a pastor to lean upon? What if Erskine should be like that college -boy Mr. Conway had taken such pains to describe graphically and insist -upon going to the bad as soon as he was away from her influence? She -could see that that was just what was being feared for him; it was -probably what Mr. Conway meant. - -Wait, must her boy, her one treasure, be away from her influence? Yes, -of course he must; everybody said so. Why, there were people who were -certain that she was ruining her son by keeping so close to him even -now. Not only now, but away back in his young boyhood. She recalled with -a shiver of pain how her husband had once said to her:-- - -"Have a care, Ruth; you don't want to make a Molly Coddle of the boy, -remember." - -Later, she had heard of one of the Mitchells as declaring that "Mrs. -Burnham was making a regular 'Miss Nancy' of that boy of hers, and if -somebody did not take him in hand, he would be ruined." - -Then, her intimate friends had been as plain with their cautions as they -dared. Had not Marian Dennis pleaded earnestly for a famous boys' school -fifty miles away? "It would be so good for him, Ruth; he would learn -self-reliance and patience; two lessons that a boy never can learn at -home, when there is but one." And Dr. Dennis had added his word: "As a -rule, my friend, a boy learns manliness by being compelled to be manly -and to depend upon himself." - -There was her old friend Eurie, with four rollicking, romping boys of -her own, always looking doubtfully at Ruth's fair-haired, fair-skinned, -rather quiet, always gentlemanly boy. - -"Let him come and spend a summer with us, Ruth," she urged, "and row and -swim and hunt and get almost shot and quite drowned a few times; it will -do him good, body and soul. Boys learn manhood by hairbreadth escapes, -you know." She had laughed at Ruth's shudder and had told Marian -privately that "Ruth was simply idiotic over that poor boy." - -Only Flossy, their dainty, gentle, still beautiful Flossy, had seemed to -understand. Had she too meant a caution? As she kissed Ruth good-by, the -four girls of Chautauqua memory having spent a never-to-be-forgotten -week together at Ruth Burnham's home, she had said gently:-- - -"The best place in the world for a boy, dear Ruth, is as close to his -mother as he wants to be, just as long as he plans to be there. I have -studied boys a good deal, and I think I am sure of so much." - -Ruth's face had flushed over this murmured word. She had been half vexed -with the others, but it had been given to their little Flossy, as often -before, to give her a new thought. She studied over it; she took it to -heart and let it color all her movements. More and more after that, -although Erskine was still quite young, she kept herself in the -background and pushed him forward. On their little trips to the larger -city and in any of their outings indeed, she compelled herself to sit -quietly in the waiting-room, while Erskine went to buy tickets and check -baggage. It is true that every nerve in her body quivered with -apprehension until he was safely beside her again, yet she held firmly -to her purpose. - -Very early in their life alone together she ceased any attempt to drive -the ponies that were Erskine's delight, and sat beside him outwardly -quiet and inwardly quaking until she had learned her lesson--reminding -herself continually that the boy's father had taught him to love and to -manage horses when he was too small to touch his feet to the carriage -floor. - -She gave up early, and with a purpose, the taking Erskine to town with -her for a round of shopping or pleasure-seeking, and learned to say -meekly and in a natural tone of voice:-- - -"Can you take me to town on Saturday, dear? I have many errands to do, -and I don't like to go alone." - -She had lived through all these things, and it was not in any such -directions that either she or her friends had fears any more. Erskine -was self-reliant enough; in fact he was masterful, though so courteous -in his ways that few beside herself suspected it. He had inherited much -from his father. Still, the mother knew that there was a strong sense in -which she dominated his life. That he went to certain places and -refrained from going to certain others simply to please her and not at -all as a matter of principle. She was far from being satisfied with -this, and was always asking herself: "How long will he do this?" and -"Are such concessions worth anything in the way of character?" - -She had many questions, this anxious mother of one child; there were -days, and this was one, when they pressed her sorely. - -The music flowed on; now soft and tender as a caress, now breaking into -great waves of sound that meant energy, and possibly conflict. - -Suddenly it ceased with a great crash of keys, still in harmony, and the -boy wheeled on his stool, looked at his mother, and laughed. - -"You woke up the wrong chap that time, didn't you, mother?" he said. "It -was as good as a play to hear him go on and to watch your face. I -haven't enjoyed anything so much in a long time." - -He laughed again over the memory. His mother did not join in the laugh; -just then she could not. Those tears that she had managed, not allowing -them to fall, had somehow got into her throat. She felt that she should -choke if she attempted to speak, and she could not summon at the moment -more than the ghost of a smile. - -Erskine wheeled back to the piano for a moment, played a few bars of a -popular song with one hand, humming it softly; then, in the midst of a -line, arose and strolled over to the window where his mother stood. - -"Never mind, mommie," he said, bending his tall form low enough to kiss -the tip of one ear--a whimsical little caress peculiar to himself. "She -mustn't go and look at the clouds and the storm and the dark as though -there wasn't any sunshine anywhere. I am not intending to go to the dogs -as soon as I go away from home, merely because my mother did her level -best all her life to keep me right side up with care; and in my opinion -it would be a poor sort of chap who would do any such thing. And I don't -feel the need of a social game of cards now and then as a safeguard, -either. I don't feel especially 'taut,' mommie, honestly; and I don't -care a straw for the Mitchells' card party. Did you really think I cared -for it on that account? How absurd! Don't you worry one least little -mite, mamma, there is absolutely nothing to be troubled over except that -you have a pastor who doesn't know enough to talk a little bit on the -side that you want talked, or else keep still. Wasn't it funny?" He -laughed once more, then added, a trifle more gravely:-- - -"When that man is older, he will understand people better, perhaps. -Don't you hope so? Shall I read to you, mamma, a little while? I have a -delicious book here that I know you will enjoy." - -Did he understand, would he ever understand, what a mountain weight he -had suddenly lifted from his mother's heart? What a gracious, -sweet-spirited, self-sacrificing boy he was! Had there ever been one -just like him? She knew he was fond of the Mitchells, and that they were -eager to have him with them in their social life; they had brought as -much pressure as they could, and he had resisted it for his mother's -sake. - -It was sweet, but--She could not keep back one little sigh. She was a -devoted mother; but she would, oh, so much rather it had been for -Christ's sake. - -There was an unexpected outcome from that interview with Mr. Conway. In -a very short time it became evident that he had lost his hold upon -Erskine. Not that the boy turned against him seriously; but he smiled -over some of his words and purposely misquoted others in a spirit of -mischief. Occasionally there was a curve to the smile that suggested a -sneer; and the strongest feeling he evinced for him might be called -indifference. In his secret heart Erskine knew that he was being -unreasonable, and was really resenting his mother's having been made -uncomfortable; but he could not get away from the feeling that Mr. -Conway, having been weighed in his mother's balance and found wanting, -was not to his mind, however much he himself might differ from her. Of -course all this was mere feeling, not principle. - -Nevertheless, the clergyman, who prided himself on his influence with -young men and who puzzled anxiously over Erskine Burnham's changed -attitude which he vaguely felt and could not define, might have been -helped if some one had been frank enough to explain the situation. -Nobody did. The boy scoffed in secret, assuring himself that a minister -who could not be a comfort to a woman and a widow when she tried to lean -on him was a "poor sort of chap." As for the mother, she told herself -that if she had not been weak and foolish in carrying her anxieties to -others, Mr. Conway would not have lost his influence over Erskine; and -the minister remained perplexed and anxious; he was sincerely eager to -be helpful to young men. - -Outwardly they all went on as before. The Mitchells and others of their -kind made their card parties and their social dances and their theatre -parties and continued to invite eagerly Mrs. Burnham's handsome young -son, who cheerfully declined all invitations and stayed with his mother. -But he argued no more; in fact he declined to do so, setting the whole -matter gayly aside, with a cheerful-- - -"Don't let us argue about these things any more, mommie. We shouldn't -agree, and they are not worth disagreeing over. I don't care a copper -for the whole crowd of entertainments that you think of with -interrogation points attached, and I don't care two straws about what -others think of me in connection with them; so let us taboo the whole -subject and enjoy ourselves." - -His mother would have liked something very different. She would have -been glad if he had given himself to the study of such matters, and -settled them from principle. She harassed herself by imagining what an -unspeakably happy mother she would be if instead of his gay, kind words -he had said:-- - -"I have been looking into this matter carefully and I understand why you -take the position that you do. In fact I do not see how a Christian -could do otherwise. I shall take it with you, and you may consider that -the question is settled with me for all time." - -However, it is something, indeed it is a great deal, for a lone and -lonely mother to have a boy go her way, and go smilingly, merely to -please her. - - - - - CHAPTER III - - MAMIE PARKER - - -ON a bright winter day more than a year after Mr. Conway's deliverance -with regard to cards, Mrs. Burnham's next very distinct milestone was -set up. She was away from the old home and Mr. Conway and all the -associations of her past. She was spending her second winter in a lively -college town, and Erskine was a sophomore. - -The lonely mother of one son had been through much anxiety and -perplexity before the plans for this change in their life were fully -formed. Erskine's gay rendering of the situation was that not only did -every adopted aunt and uncle and grandmother that he had in the world -know best how to plan their life for them, but had each a pet college to -ride as a hobby. He gave this as a reason why it was just as well to -break all their hearts at one fell swoop and choose for himself--which -was what in effect he had done; at least he had gone quite contrary to -the urgings of his other friends and had compromised with his mother. -But he had made quite a compromise. His very first choice had been one -of which she entirely disapproved; nor could she be persuaded despite -his arguments to change her point of view. In vain he held her quite -into the night in a close and eager debate, setting forth his important -reasons with skill and eloquence. In vain he assured her that conditions -had very much changed since his father had expressed disapproval of this -particular centre of learning, and as for his grandfather, why there was -nothing left of his times but the name. - -His mother urged that her opinion, or her feeling--he might call it -feeling if he chose--was not based on his grandfather's or even entirely -on his father's views, but was the result of her own reading and -inquiry, and was unalterable. If he selected that college, it would be -in direct opposition to her strongly expressed wishes. She had been -tempted to add that if he did so, his money, left in her charge and -subject to her decisions until he was of legal age, would not be -forthcoming. She was mercifully preserved from making this mistake. Had -she said so, he would probably have gone to the college of his choice -even though he had to go penniless. As it was, his eyes flashed a -little. But his mother's voice had trembled as she added those last -words, "And I suppose I need not try to tell you how such a course would -hurt me." - -It was that which held the boy. He sprang up suddenly, took two or three -hasty turns up and down the room in a manner so like his father's that -Ruth could hardly bear it, then his face had cleared. - -"You shall not be hurt, mommie," he had said in his usual cheery tone. -"You shall never be hurt by me. I want that college more I presume than -I could make you understand, and the more I think about it the more I -feel that I should like to choose it. But I am not a baby who must have -everything he wants; and I do not care enough for anything on earth to -get it at the expense of hurting you. You know that, don't you? I'll -tell you, mother, we will compromise; this is an age of compromise. I -will drop my first choice from this time forth if you will unite -heartily with me on the second one and help me stop this clamor of -tongues." - -It had not been by any means her second choice, but she felt that having -been treated so well she must meet him halfway; so the vexed question -was settled. - -There had been another anxiety. Marion Dennis had written to her not to -make the mistake of following her boy to college; and Dr. Dennis had -added a few lines to the same effect, saying that in nine cases out of -ten he believed such a course to be a mistake, and even in the tenth, -separation would probably have been better. Moreover, an only son and an -only child needed, as a rule, more than any other to be thrown on his -own resources. All the old arguments over again, and numberless plans -for the disposal of the mother. She was to come to the Dennis home for a -visit of unlimited length; she was to spend the winter with Flossy; she -was to go abroad with Grace and her husband. Eurie, the outspoken, -wrote:-- - -"Now, Ruth, don't, I beg of you, tie that dear boy to your apron-string. -I am the mother of five, and I know all about how they talk, and how -they feel when they don't talk. Besides, I need you this winter as never -before; let me tell you something." Then had followed revelations -intended to prove that it was Ruth's imperative duty to spend the winter -with her old friend. - -Mr. Conway added his courteous hint, and suggested plans. Mrs. Conway -wondered if Mrs. Burnham would not like to join her sister Helen and -their mutual friends, the Hosmers, on an extended Western trip, now that -she was to be alone. The winter was an ideal time for such a tour as -they had planned; and it would be pleasant for Erskine to think of his -mother as travelling with friends instead of being at home alone. Poor -Ruth! her heart turned from them all in almost rebellion. If she must be -separated from Erskine for the first time in his life, couldn't she be -let alone in her own home? To go visiting or sight-seeing without him -she felt would be unbearable. She kept most of these anxieties and -advices to herself, feeling that she must not cloud Erskine's last days -at home with them. Still, she wondered not a little,--and sometimes it -hurt her,--that he had not spoken of her plans at all, but seemed to be -so absorbed in his own as to have forgotten her. At last, when she felt -that some positive decision must be reached, she told him of Mr. -Conway's proposition, and showed him Eurie's letter. He glanced it -through, smiling serenely:-- - -"Aunt Eurie is cool, as usual," he remarked. "They can all save their -time by planning for somebody else, can't they? Of course I am going to -take you with me, mommie. Do they think I would leave you in this big -house alone, or let you go travelling without me!" - -It was all so easy to arrange after that. It sounded so different from -the wording in those letters when Erskine himself replied to them. - -"I am very grateful for your thoughtful kindness about my mother, but I -am going to take her with me; I had not a thought of doing otherwise. I -should not be comfortable to have her away from my care in winter, even -though she were with you. I have so long made her first in my thoughts -and look upon her so entirely as my father's precious charge to me, that -no other plan is to be thought of. I shall find pleasant rooms for her, -and I think she will enjoy the change." - -Ruth smiled proudly as she made her verbal explanations. "Thank you very -much, but Erskine says I am to go with him; he cannot think of trusting -me to myself; he has taken care of me for a long time, you know." There -was not a thought of sarcasm in this suggestion. She knew that the -assumption of authority sat well on her handsome son who could look down -on her from his splendid height; it seemed quite in keeping with his -appearance and character that he was going to take his mother with him -in order to take care of her. - -The scheme had worked well. He "took" his mother and took excellent care -of her, and incidentally she did much, of course, for his comfort, and -they were happy. Early in his college career she had sometimes overheard -explanations like this:-- - -"No, boys, I can't join you to-night. You see, I have my mother with me -and I feel bound to give her what time I can spare. It will never do to -have her feel lonely and deserted after bringing her away out here among -strangers, on purpose to take care of her." - -It was all very pleasant. But she had learned something from those -letters and that volume of advice. She tried steadily not to dominate -her son; indeed, so far as a carefully-watched-over mother could, she -effaced herself, or tried to. Erskine had no thought of such a thing, -and was openly and serenely happy in his mother's society. - -"I pity the other fellows," was a phrase often on his lips. "Most of -them live in pokey rooms all by themselves or with only each other; no -woman to speak to but a cross-grained hostess, and nothing homelike -anywhere; while here it is almost as nice as being at home." - -And he would glance complacently around the handsomely furnished suite -of rooms that showed everywhere the touch of his mother's hand. But of -course there were evenings that were not spent with his mother. It was -in connection with one of these that she reached that distinct milestone -of which mention has been made. Erskine in explaining about it had shown -an unaccountable embarrassment. - -"It is just a kind of spread that one of the boys is getting up in honor -of his sister; she has come to spend the winter with him. It is rather -new business to him and I have promised to help him through, so I must -go early and stay late--not very late, though. Parker's landlady will -look out for that; she is one of the grim and surly kind. I should have -the shivers if I had to get up a spread, with her in charge. Yes, Parker -is the curly-headed one that you don't quite fancy. I don't know why, he -is a good fellow. Haven't I spoken before of his sister? She has been -here for three weeks. Didn't you notice Parker last Wednesday at the -concert? He sat just across from us and had her with him. Yes, she is at -his boarding-house, and the spread is in his room. He has the downstairs -room, mother, in fact it is the back parlor; there is a folding-bed that -does duty as a sort of sideboard during the day. It is very nice, -really. One wouldn't imagine that there was a bed anywhere around. -Parker is one of the fellows who has a good deal of money, I think, but -not the culture that generally goes with such a condition. Sometimes I -fancy that his father must have made his money lately and suddenly; but, -of course, I don't know. Still, everything is very nice and proper about -this spread; of course you know that, or I wouldn't be in it. The -sister? Oh, yes, she is young--younger than Parker. He is older than -most of us, you know. No, there are no women in the house except the -landlady and her sister, a maiden lady. That's a pity; it must be rather -lonely for Ma--for Miss Parker." - -The color flamed in his face and he laughed in an embarrassed way and -spoke apologetically:-- - -"Parker has 'Mamie' so constantly on his tongue that the rest of us are -in danger of forgetting. He is very proud of his sister. Why, no, -mother, of course he could not very well make any other arrangement; why -should he? Of course it is a perfectly proper thing for a young lady to -be in her brother's boarding-house. She isn't obliged to have any more -to do with the other young men than she chooses. Parker wants her to -stay with him all winter. Their father is a mining man, and he and his -wife have gone to the mountains somewhere among the mines to look up -some more of their money, I suppose." - -He spoke almost contemptuously; for some reason the evidence of -abundance of money in the Parker family seemed to annoy him. He went on -quickly with his labored explanations:-- - -"Of course it would be pleasanter for M--for his sister if Parker were -in a house where there are ladies, but he has been there for several -years and has a room that suits him; he doesn't seem to think he can -make a change. Oh, yes, there are to be ladies to-night. Some of the -other boys have sisters, and cousins, or intimate friends; it is a very -informal affair. I fancy that Miss Parker herself is to be hostess. As -for a chaperon, I don't think they have thought of her." He laughed in a -half-embarrassed way as he said that, and added hastily:-- - -"It is really just a frolic, mother; they are not formal people at all, -under any circumstances, I fancy. Is it possible that that clock is -striking seven! I must be off at once; Parker will think I have -forgotten my promise to see him through from beginning to end." - -What had he said to cause his mother to sit, for an hour after his -departure, as still as a stone, her hands clasped over the neglected -book in her lap? What was making that strange stricture around her heart -as though a cold hand had clutched her and was holding on? - -He had kissed her good-by with almost more tenderness than usual, if -that were possible. He had called her "mommie," his special pet name for -her, and had inquired solicitously as to whether there was any special -reason for his getting home early. If there was, why of course--or if -for any reason she would rather not be left to-night, he could excuse -himself to Parker,--of course he could. All his friends knew well enough -that his mother came first. - -But how relieved and pleased he had looked when she made haste to assure -him that there was not, and that she would be quietly happy with her -book all the evening, and there was no need at all for his hastening -home. And besides--she paused over that connecting phrase and tried to -formulate her fears. How had her son conveyed to her heart the feeling -that the time to which it seemed to her she had always looked -forward--the time when he would look upon some other woman with eyes -that were no longer indifferent, had come? - -She could not have put it into words; but though she arose, at last, and -put away her book as something that seemed to have failed her, and sat -down at her desk to spend an hour with Marian Dennis, and abandoned her, -presently, for Flossy Shipley, and gave them both up after the second -page, and selected another book with the firm determination to compel -herself to read it, the simple truth is that she spent the entire -evening, and a large portion of the night as well, with one Mamie -Parker. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - WOULD SHE "DO"? - - -THE next morning Mrs. Burnham came into her pretty parlor, where a -dainty breakfast table was laid for two, prepared to be as wise as a -serpent over the new situation. She was genial, sympathetic, and not too -penetrative in her questions. Erskine had come home late, much later -than he had ever been before; yet apparently his mother had not noticed -it. - -She did not even ask at what time he had come. In truth she needed no -information, but how was Erskine to know that? - -Did he have a pleasant evening, and was the occasion all that it should -have been? He was not enthusiastic. It was pleasant enough, he said. In -some respects very pleasant; only--well, a few of the boys were noisier -than was agreeable, and two or three of them did not apparently know how -to treat ladies. - -"Oh, nothing objectionable, of course," he said quickly, in response to -her startled look. - -"They are so used to being alone that they grow loud-voiced and careless -about the small proprieties, or at least courtesies; I fancy some of -their ways must have seemed peculiar to Miss Parker." - -"The other girls? Oh, they are used to such things; they were the -sisters and cousins of the boys, and the ways of a lot of fellows -accustomed chiefly to their own society would not seem so strange to -the others; but Miss Parker is--at least I hope, I mean I think -she--" He caught himself and left the sentence unfinished save by a -half-embarrassed laugh, which changed into a slight frown. - -While his mother rang her table bell and gave low-voiced directions to -the maid, she pondered. What was it that Erskine hoped? That Miss Parker -was by nature more refined than the other ladies? And was the hope well -founded? She was slightly acquainted with some of the sisters and -cousins who were probably at this gathering. At least she had met them -once or twice and had felt no fear as to their influence over Erskine. -Was this Mamie Parker different? She felt her face flush a little even -over her thoughts. Must she learn to say "Mamie"? One thing was certain: -she must make the acquaintance of the girl at once. She ventured a move. - -"Is this Mr. Parker so much your friend, Erskine, that he will expect -your mother to call on his sister, or is that unnecessary?" - -Her heart beat in steady thumps while she waited for his answer. If only -he would say in his pleasant, indifferent tone:-- - -"Oh, it isn't necessary, mother; Parker and I are not especially -intimate, and he has no reason to expect such attentions from you." But -there was no indifference in the quick response. - -"Mommie, you know just what, and how, always, don't you? I was wishing -for that very thing and not wanting to trouble you. Parker and I cannot -be said to be inseparable; but he is a good fellow, and I think you -would like him better on closer acquaintance. His sister is very much -alone here; none of those girls who were there last night have homes or -mothers; I mean of course that they are away from home; though I must -admit that some of them acted last night as though they had no mothers -anywhere, worthy of the name. It would mean very much to Miss Parker, -mother, if she could know you; and of course Parker would appreciate it -more than anything else that could be done for her. You don't know how -much the boys admire my mother." - -His mother managed to smile cheerfully, and assure him that she would -make the proposed call. When he went away to his recitation he kissed -her fervently and told her she was the dearest mother in the world; and -as she watched him out of sight, she turned from the window and said -with a kind of strange gravity:-- - -"I think it has come: I must pray for grace to do right." - -For several days thereafter the hours that Mrs. Burnham spent alone were -unusually thoughtful and prayerful. The feeling grew upon her that her -son had reached a critical point in his life. It is true he was very -young, not yet twenty; but none knew better than she that boys of twenty -sometimes glorify and sometimes mar all their future by reason of their -interest in one young woman. Also, she knew that a single false step on -her part, just now, might spoil all her future with her son and hasten a -condition of things that she longed to postpone for him. But she could -not plan her way, could not indeed see a single step before her until -that first one was taken: she must make that call on Mamie Parker. While -she allowed one triviality after another to delay her, the conviction -grew upon her that the step was important. Erskine's interest was keen; -despite the sympathy there had always been between them he had never -before shown such a lively desire to hear about each moment of his -mother's time while they were separated. That he chose not to ask in so -many words whether or not she had yet made that call but emphasized the -situation. When, before, had he hesitated to urge what he desired? -Moreover, he was often absent-minded and constrained; seeming to be -almost embarrassed over his own thoughts. He could not mention the -girl's name without a heightened color, yet he evidently planned ways of -introducing it that would sound accidental. - -All things considered, Mrs. Burnham, as she dressed carefully for -calling, gravely admitted to herself that she was evidently about to -meet one who, for good or ill, had taken a strong hold upon her son's -life. - -As she waited in the large ugly parlor, where the wall-paper was gaudily -angry over the colors in the carpet, and where every article of -furniture or ornament--of which last there were many--seemed ready to -fight with every other one, she wondered what Erskine the fastidious -thought of this room. It seemed almost profane to think of meeting one's -ideal in such a room. Yet she must be reasonable; of course the girl was -not to blame for the taste, or want of taste, displayed in her brother's -boarding-house. - -She had to wait an unreasonable length of time, and despite her furs she -felt the chill of the half-warmed room. There were a few books on the -table, but she tried in vain to find one that would hold her thoughts. -Perhaps no book could have been expected to do that under the -circumstances. - -Presently she became aware that some one else had entered an adjoining -room where there had been brisk moving about ever since her arrival. -With the coming of another, a sharp little voice could be distinctly -heard:-- - -"Oh, say, Lucile, do come here and fasten this waist; I'm scared to -pieces and my fingers all feel like thumbs. Don't you think 'Ma' has -come to look me over and see if I will do! Oh dear! can't you hook it? -It's awful tight, but I've got to be squeezed into it somehow; I'm -keeping her waiting an awful while. I had on that fright of a wrapper -when she came, and my hair in crimps. I didn't get up to breakfast this -morning; we were so horrid late last night, I couldn't." - -"'Ma' who?" said another voice. "Not Erskine Burnham's mother? You don't -say so! My land! I should think you would be scared. They say she's -awful particular who she calls on. You must mind your p's and q's, -Mamie, or you'll never see that handsome boy of hers again. They say she -keeps him right under her thumb all the time." - -Mamie's response was in too low a tone to penetrate into the next room, -but it was followed by explosive giggles from both talkers. Meanwhile, -the caller's face was glowing, not only with shame for them, but with -indignation. What might _not_ those coarse girls--she was sure they were -both coarse--be saying about her son! - -The door opened at last and a mass of fluffy hair entered; behind which -peeped a pert little face with pink cheeks and bright, keen eyes. - -The girl was dressed in the extreme of the prevailing style,--quite too -much dressed for morning, though the material of which her garments were -made was flimsy and cheap-looking. Plainly if she had money she had not -learned how to spend it to advantage. Still the clothes were worn with -an air that hinted at her ability to learn how to play the fine lady if -she were given the opportunity. - -Her manner to her caller suggested a curious mixture of timidity and -bravado. She chattered incessantly and showered slang words and phrases -about her freely; yet all the while kept up a nervous little undertone -of movement and manner that showed she was not at ease. - -"Oh, indeed, she was having an awfully good time. Brother Jim was doing -the best he could to give her a lark. She had never been much away from -home and they lived in a stupid little village where there was nothing -going on. Oh, Jim was an elegant brother; he wanted her to stay all -winter and look after his buttons and things." - -"I expect you have heard a good deal about Jim, haven't you, from your -son? Only he calls him 'Parker' instead of Jim; the boys all do that, -you know. It's 'Parker,' and 'Burnham,' and all the rest of them. Ain't -it funny, instead of using their first names? I s'pose that's the -college of it; but your son has such a pretty name it seems a pity not -to use it. Don't you think Erskine is an awful pretty name? I do. It has -such an aristocratic sound. Ma says I ought to have been born with a -silver spoon in my mouth, I like aristocratic things so well. Not but -what we've got money enough;"--this with an airy toss of the frizzed -head. Then, in a confidential tone: "But I may as well own to you that -it didn't pan out until a little while ago." - -Mrs. Burnham, as she took her thoughtful way home, too much exhausted -with this effort to think of making another call, studied in vain the -problem of her son's enthralment. - -The girl was pretty, certainly, with a kind of garish, unfinished -beauty, not unlike that of a pert doll; and her chatter, if one could -divest one's self of all thought of interest in the chatterer save in -the way of a moment's diversion, was rather entertaining than otherwise, -when it was not too much mixed with slang; but what Erskine, her -cultivated and always fastidious son, could find in the empty little -brain to attract him was beyond the mother's comprehension. But he must -have been pronounced in his attentions. Had she not been reported as -having called to see if the girl would "do"? Ruth's sensitive face -flushed over the memory. Should she tell that to Erskine? What should -she tell to Erskine? How should the place and the interview and her -impressions of the entire scene be described? It required serious -thought. The more the mother considered it, the more sure she felt that -much of Erskine's future might turn on the way in which she, his mother, -conducted herself just now. She puzzled long and reached no clearer -conclusion than that until she saw her way clearer she would take no -steps at all, and would be entirely noncommittal in her statements. This -she found hard; Erskine was curious, more curious than she had ever -before known him to be. He cross-questioned her closely as to her call, -and was openly regretful, almost annoyed, at her having so little to -tell. In the course of the next few days the watching mother, who yet -did not wish to appear to watch, knew of at least two social functions -that included her son and Miss Parker. One was a sleigh-ride which fell -on the evening of the mid-week prayer-meeting in the church they were -attending. Erskine had been scrupulous in his attendance on this -meeting, declining for it social and business engagements alike, -sometimes to his own inconvenience. - -"There was no use in compromising about these matters," he said. "Busy -people can find something important to detain them every week of their -lives if they once admit an exception. The only way is to set one's face -like a flint and march ahead." - -But he came to her with profuse apologies for this exception; Parker had -planned, without knowing anything about the prayer-meeting; he had not -been brought up to think of such things, and it was going to embarrass -him very much if he declined. He wouldn't have had it happen in this way -for a great deal, and he should take care to let Parker know in the -future that Thursday evening belonged to his mother and to no one else. -He himself arranged for her to have agreeable company to and from the -church, and she had grace to be sweet and cheerfully acquiescent in all -his plans. Nevertheless she owned, quite to herself, that she felt in a -strange, new sense alone. She was more straitened in her praying that -evening than she had been for months, almost for years. There was a -miserable undertone question hovering about each petition: Could it be -possible that she must teach herself to pray for Mamie Parker, not as a -passing acquaintance but as one of her very own? and could she learn -such a lesson? She had by no means settled it that such a catastrophe -must come upon them, but she could not keep down her forebodings. - -It was two days afterwards that Mrs. Burnham, having at last reached a -decision, made another very careful move. It was discussed over the -cosey breakfast which she and Erskine took together in her parlor. - -"Would he like to have her ask Mr. Parker and his sister in to dinner on -some evening soon? or would that indicate a greater degree of intimacy -with the young man than he cared to live up to?" - -There was a sudden stricture at her heart over the flash of pleasure on -her son's face. - -"Mommie, you are a jewel!" this was his first outburst. "Parker would be -everlastingly obliged to you for such an attention. You see he knows -very few people here of the sort that he would care to have his sister -visit. Most of his friends are just college boys away from home, and -Parker has ideas about his sister's associates. He is a real good -fellow, Mommie; if he had had one-third of my opportunities, he would -have made more of them, I believe, than I have." - -His mother did not choose to argue that question. She felt a wicked -temptation to say that she would be glad if she need never hear his name -again; but she restrained herself and asked another question. - - - - - CHAPTER V - - THE OLD CAT! - - -"WOULD he like to have one or two young people asked to meet them? Alice -Warder, for instance, and her cousin. How would they do?" Did his face -cloud a little? - -"I don't know," he said slowly, and his voice suggested a cloud, or at -least a diminution of his pleasure. - -"Is that necessary, do you think, mother? It is not as though we were at -home, of course. Several guests at one time would hardly be expected at -a boarding-house." - -His mother reminded him of their hostess's cordial offer of a separate -table for themselves and three or four guests whenever they cared to -give her a half-day's notice; and added that Alice was so used to being -called upon to help entertain their guests, that to count her out would -seem almost strange to her. Besides, wouldn't this be a convenient time -to show her cousin some attention? He was not to be with her long. - -Apparently Erskine had no more arguments to offer. - -"Oh, very well," he said. Those were matters for her to settle, and it -must all be just as she thought, of course. Then he kissed her, -lavishly, and went away; but she felt that she had destroyed much of his -pleasure in the proposed visit. And he used to be so fond of Alice! - -During the next two days she spent much time and thought over her little -boarding-house dinner-party. She had adhered to her resolve to include -Alice and her cousin among the guests, although she had given herself -time to look steadily in the face the reason why she was so insistent -about this when Erskine evidently desired it otherwise. - -Alice Warder was Flossy Shipley's dear friend, and being introduced by -her to the Burnhams was at once established on the footing of an old -friend. It had taken but a very short time to learn to love her for -herself. Even the careful mother of one son of marriageable age would -have found it hard to find flaws in Alice Warder. She was beautiful to -look upon, with regular, well-modelled features and a complexion that -was faultless. Perhaps her great brown eyes were what a stranger noticed -first; they were certainly very expressive. But she was much more than -beautiful. There was about her a charm of manner and movement that are -difficult to define and impossible to describe, but that made their -invariable impression even on those who met her casually. Ruth Burnham, -who in her womanhood was, as she had been in her girlhood, fastidious to -a fault with regard to young women, had yielded to the subtle charm of -this one at their very first meeting; and as the intimacy between them -deepened into friendship she had found graces of heart and mind that -fully harmonized with the lovely exterior. - -The Warders bought a home very near to the Burnham place, and so far as -social life was concerned the two families speedily became as one. - -Mrs. Burnham, singularly enough, as she reflected afterward, had not -once, during the early days of their friendship, coupled the names of -Alice and Erskine in her thoughts, congenial as they were. Although they -were almost to a day of the same age, Alice, who had been for several -years the nominal head of her father's house, appeared much the older, -and more like a mature young woman than a girl still in the charge of a -governess. It might have been this apparent disparity in their ages that -helped Mrs. Burnham to take the girl to her heart and think of her as -the daughter she had often wished for; not by any means as Erskine's -wife, but as his sister. - -Erskine had been from the first of their acquaintance drawn to the young -woman in the frank and brotherly way that his mother desired. When the -plans for college were matured, one of the loudly spoken regrets on the -part of both mother and son was that they must be separated from the -Warders. - -It came to pass, however, in the course of their second year of absence -that Mr. Warder had occasion to make the college town his headquarters -for several months; so Alice and her former governess were installed in -one of the hotels for the winter, that her father might have as much of -her company as possible; and the Burnhams rejoiced greatly thereat. - -Yet here was Erskine, barely six weeks afterwards, considering it not -necessary to invite Alice to dinner! The poor mother sighed over the -perversity and the blindness of young manhood, and knew for the first -time that if Erskine had developed the peculiar interest which Miss -Parker seemed to have awakened, for Alice Warder, instead, she could -have rejoiced with her whole heart. - -They came to dinner, Alice and her Boston cousin, a Harvard student of -marked ability, and Miss Parker and her brother. And Alice was fully as -marked a contrast to the other young woman as Ruth had believed that she -would be. First, in the matter of dress. Alice Warder was an artist in -dress. She wore at this quiet little dinner party a cloth gown of -olive-green, so severely plain in its make-up that its richness of -texture and faultless workmanship were apparent. And Miss Parker -appeared in an elbow-sleeved white dress badly laundered and profusely -trimmed with a quantity of lace that was startling rather than fine. -Moreover, she was adorned with a mass of hothouse blooms to which she -referred so significantly that the little company were at once made -aware that Erskine was the giver. - -But the dress was perfection compared with the poor girl's manner. She -gayly and unblushingly appropriated Erskine to herself and rallied her -brother on the situation. - -"Poor Jim! you haven't any girl at all, have you? Since Miss -Warder--must I call you 'Miss Warder'? it sounds ever so much more -friendly and cosey to say 'Alice.' You must look after your cousin, I -suppose. Are you sure he is your cousin? You know that is a dodge girls -have when--Oh, well, never mind; I won't bother you. This is good for -Jim; he always has half a dozen strings to his bow and can never decide -which one of them he wants the most; so this will be excellent -discipline for him, leaving him out in the cold. Dear me! What am I -talking about? Here is Mrs. Burnham looking young enough this minute to -be one of us." - -All this, while they were making their way through the boarding-house -halls and large dining-room to a cosey little alcove, where a table had -been set for the Burnhams and their guests. Erskine's face had flushed -deeply during the outburst, and he had darted an annoyed look at his -mother to see if she was hearing it. He led the way across the -dining-room much to the irrepressible Mamie's disappointment, though she -chose to seem to ridicule it. - -"Dear me!" she said in a stage whisper to Alice, "do look at that -ridiculous boy walking off alone. Where I come from, the fellows take -the girls out to supper. Can't I borrow your cousin for this evening, -and get even with him?" - -Mrs. Burnham felt the color rising in her face, but Alice was gracious -and lovely. She laughed pleasantly as though used to such jokes, linked -her arm in the girl's, and said merrily:-- - -"We will give them all the slip, my dear, and go in together." - -[Illustration: "WE WILL GIVE THEM ALL THE SLIP, MY DEAR."--_Page 61._] - -Throughout that embarrassing and long-drawn-out dinner Alice was a help -and comfort at least to her hostess, and did steadily and patiently what -she could to cover the blunders of the girl beside her. Utterly -unaccustomed to even the formalities of a fashionable boarding-house -table, Mamie made constant blunders with forks and spoons and other -instruments of torture for the uninitiated; but these were trifles -compared with the blunders of her tongue. She made evident attempts to -cover her ignorance with regard to table formalities by much gay talk. -She laughed incessantly, and told many jokes at her brother's expense. -She said: "him and me," and "her and I," and "you folks," and a dozen -other provincialisms. When they returned to Mrs. Burnham's parlor, it -was almost worse--for then Mamie sang; and it was hard for her hostess -to determine of which she was most ashamed, the bad taste of the girl's -selections or the less than mediocre execution. - -Still, the music was by no means the worst feature of that memorable -hour. Mamie's next startling venture was a pretence of being offended by -what she called Erskine's desertion of her at dinner-time. - -"Oh, you needn't come around," she said rudely, as he rose to arrange -her music. "I can fix things myself, thank you, and Mr. Colchester will -turn the music for me, I know; won't you, Mr. Colchester?" with a jaunty -little smile for the stately Boston cousin. "You can't make up for -rudeness to me, sir, as easy as you think. I make fellows who want my -company mind their p's and q's, don't I, Jim?" - -The stalwart brother thus appealed to replied only by a slight -embarrassed laugh, and the hostess had time out of her own embarrassment -to bestow a swift glance of pity upon him. He had already seen enough of -another sort of world to realize that his pretty, pert little sister, -the idol of his country home, was not making as good an impression on -these new friends of his as he wished she were. If the ladies had but -known it, the poor young fellow was at that moment saying to himself:-- - -"Why can't Mamie act more like that Miss Warder, I wonder? There's an -awful difference between them, and she doesn't catch on, somehow." - -Throughout the interminable evening, Alice Warder proved not only the -excellent foil that Mrs. Burnham had foreseen, but a faithful and -efficient coadjutor. Not a lift of her eyebrows or a stray glance of any -kind betrayed a second's surprise at the character of the guests invited -to meet her dignified cousin and herself. She was gracious and friendly -to such an extent that before the evening was over, Mamie, who was -frankness itself, said admiringly:-- - -"How long you going to stay in this place? Dear me! I wish you was going -to be here all winter; I can see that you and me would be real cronies." - -In the privacy of Mrs. Burnham's bedroom, whither Alice was taken to put -on her wraps, the girl bestowed her closing touch of sweetness and balm -upon her hostess. - -"I had quite a little visit with Mr. Parker while you were entertaining -the others with those pictures; I was much interested in him; he is a -young man of good principle, isn't he? One on whom education will tell. -It is lovely in you and Erskine to open your home to him in this way; it -will be sure to mean much to him; and it ought to help the little -sister, too. It is pleasant to see how fond he is of her." - -"You helped," said Mrs. Burnham, significantly. "I am more grateful for -your help to-night than the mere words will express." - -She kissed her as she spoke, and felt in her heart that she was willing -that Erskine should marry this girl to-morrow, if he would. - -"I was glad of the opportunity," the girl said simply. "And so, I am -sure, was Ranford. He is very much interested in young men of this -type." - -For a full half hour after "Jim" had carried off his pouting -sister,--whose parting shot had been that she considered it "awfully -pokey" for a girl to go home from a dinner-party with "nothing but her -brother"--spoken in a pretended confidence to him, but loud enough for -all to hear,--silence reigned in the Burnham parlor. - -Erskine had a desk in one of its corners, where he kept certain of his -books, and studied, whenever he chose to remain with his mother. He -flung himself down before it the moment the door closed after their -guests, as though work pressed hard. - -His mother took a book and sat silent and apparently absorbed, although -as a matter of fact, instead of reading, she was studying the -half-averted face that was drawn in almost stern lines, and the eyes -that stared at the open page as though they did not see its words. She -did not believe that Erskine was studying Latin. - -What had this terrible evening done for him, and for her? Had that -pretty-faced, ill-dressed, ill-bred girl secured in some unaccountable -way a permanent hold on her son's heart? Might it not be possible that -in giving him this awful view of her in sharp contrast with Alice Warder -she had but alienated him from herself? Perhaps she had blundered, and -perhaps the consequences of her blunder would be fatal to them both. Why -had she done it? Why had she not waited, and watched, and understood -better before she attempted anything? What should she do now? How was -she to bear this silence? And yet, what might not Erskine say when at -last he broke it? - -A half-hour passed and neither mother nor son had turned a page. -Suddenly he wheeled his chair around so that she could get a full view -of his face, and smiled a half-sad, half-whimsical smile, and spoke his -word:-- - -"I don't believe we can do it, Mommie. It was good in you to try, and -you did it royally, as you do things, but--she can't be assimilated. She -doesn't belong. We shall have to wait until she goes home before we can -do much for Parker. All the same, mother, you understand that I thank -you for the effort. Alice was superb to-night, wasn't she?" - -Then Ruth Burnham understood that it was her business to understand that -her son's interest lay solely in the young man Parker, and that in the -desire to help the brother the sister must be thought of as simply -tolerated. Already Erskine had put away his first illusion so utterly -that he did not propose to own it to himself, much less to his mother. - -Poor Mamie Parker spent her fruitless winter in the college town, and -tried by many innocent and a few questionable ways to win back to -interest and special attention her brother's handsome friend, whose -sudden defection she could not understand. She tortured herself in a -vain effort to discover what could have happened on that evening which -she had expected to be memorable to her for other reasons than now -appeared. Why had it so utterly changed the attitude toward her of the -young man who, she had confidently assured Jim, was "caught, all right," -she "knew the signs"? - -By degrees, without any clearly defined reason for doing so, she came to -associate the defection with the young man's mother, and called her -"that old cat!" with a bitterness that had more than mere anger behind -it; there was a lump in her throat and a curious stricture about the -little organ that she called her heart, which was new to the frivolous -girl. - -Jim's handsome college friend had afforded his sister Mamie a glimpse -into a new, strange world, one that she felt she could have loved, and -in which she believed that she could have shone; and in some way, she -did not understand how, his mother had closed the door. - -"The old cat!" she said. "I should like to get even with her!" And then -she cried. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - IDEAL CONDITIONS - - -ERSKINE BURNHAM'S lesson was short, but sharp, and he seemed to have -learned it thoroughly. He gave himself more persistently to study than -before, and was even more devoted to his mother than ever, if that were -possible. He let the visiting sisters of freshmen and sophomores -dignifiedly alone, and resisted without a sigh numerous attempts to draw -him into local society circles. - -"Haven't time for society just now," was his invariable excuse. "Nor -inclination," he would add privately for his mother's benefit. - -Occasionally the mother urged the acceptance of an invitation and begged -him not to make a recluse of himself for her sake; but he met her -suggestions with his whimsical smile and the gay retort that a society -composed of two entirely congenial people met all his present -requirements. She was not insistent. Why should she be, when Erskine was -undeniably happy in the life he had planned? - -Certainly it was an ideal life for the fond mother; for both of them, -perhaps. It had been unique from the first of Erskine's college course. -They had been settled but a few weeks in their new home when Mrs. -Burnham, finding much time at her disposal, proposed to Erskine that she -take up some of her long-ago-dropped studies and let him introduce her -to modern college ways. The young man laughed as he gave her an admiring -glance and assured her that she knew more than other women, already. -Nevertheless it pleased him to go into careful detail about his work, -and on the following day it surprised as well as pleased him to find -that his mother was quite as well prepared with some of his studies as -he was himself. From that evening a new order of things was established; -Mrs. Burnham, without matriculating as a college student, and without -letting it be known, save to the choice few who were their very intimate -friends, became nevertheless a student. How much of Erskine Burnham's -acknowledged success in college was due to the fact that his mother -studied with him throughout the entire course is something that will -never be known; but her son gave her full credit for the help that she -was to him. From the first he recognized her as a stimulant; he -discovered that he must have his points very fully in his grasp in order -to explain them satisfactorily to his pupil. She always insisted on -being his pupil and kept carefully the subordinate place, although her -keen questionings more than once led him to change his view of a subject -under discussion. - -Altogether, it was a life replete with satisfaction to both mother and -son. Not that they shut themselves away from society. Such of his -friends as Erskine thought his mother would enjoy or could help he -brought freely to their rooms, and between several of the students and -herself there was built up by degrees that kind of friendship which one -occasionally sees between self-respecting young men and certain -middle-aged women. It was a very pleasant experience, and it made Ruth -feel, as she expressed it to Erskine, that she had several sons always -ready to serve her. - -Neither did they wholly neglect the outside world. Both mother and son -held carefully to their resolve not to let college or any other -functions interfere with their Sunday and mid-week engagements in the -church of their choice, and through this channel they made certain -acquaintances that ripened into friendship. But there came a time in the -mother's life when she wished, not that she had enjoyed her studies with -Erskine less, but that both of them had given more time and thought and -enjoyment to distinctively religious themes and duties. - -Meantime their friendship for Alice Warder ripened and deepened, -although there had been an interim during which its very life had seemed -to be threatened. Following that painful episode with Mamie Parker, -Erskine had seemed to shun even Alice Warder. He had not from the first -been entirely sure that he cared to see much of her Boston cousin, and -presently made him an excuse for seeing little of Alice, for the cousin -seemed to be staying indefinitely. This state of things lasted until the -college year closed and they went home, and became again next-door -neighbors to the Warders. At first, it seemed to Mrs. Burnham that the -old friendship was lost. Something very vague and intangible, but -distinctly felt, seemed to have come between them. Then, suddenly, -whatever it was, it passed. On a certain evening that stood out plainly -afterward in the mother's memory Alice had appeared at her window with -an air of decision, and a question. - -"Has Erskine come in yet, Mrs. Burnham? When he comes, will you ask him -if he can give me an uninterrupted half-hour this evening for something -special?" - -Later, the mother wondered, and often wondered what that something -special was, but she had not been told. It was something that made a -marked difference in Erskine's manner. From apparently avoiding Alice -Warder's society as much as possible, he frankly sought it; proposing -her as a third on occasions when his mother would have hesitated, and in -every possible way proclaiming that the old cordial relations were -reestablished. From that time on, the young woman next door became so -entirely identified with the daily life of the Burnhams that the -intimate friends of the family said "Alice and Erskine," quite as a -matter of course. - -In the fall they went back to college, mother and son. At least that was -Erskine's way of putting it. - -"Why not?" he said, laughing at his mother's protest. "You are as much -in college as I am. They ought to give you a diploma. I believe I'll -divide mine; have the sheepskin cut exactly in two, and your name -inserted. Half of my honors belong to you, anyhow." - -During his senior year Erskine and Alice Warder were more inseparable -than ever. Mr. Warder went abroad on an extended business trip, which -was so entirely business that he would have little or no time for Alice, -and she chose to be left behind. But her friend who had lived with her -as a companion, since she had ceased to be a governess, wanted the -winter for her personal friends, so it was decided that Alice should -secure rooms at the same house where the Burnhams boarded and be -chaperoned by Mrs. Burnham. This made them practically one family, -though each adhered to his own programme. Alice gave much time to -correspondence, and interested herself at once in special church work; -while Mrs. Burnham continued to study with her son. But in all social -functions, and indeed, in all their leisure time, they were together -quite as a family. - -It was during this winter that Mrs. Burnham took up a study quite by -herself and made diligent effort in it. This was the study of adjusting -herself to new relations. She was getting acquainted with and growing -used to her daughter, she told herself hopefully; for by this time she -had fully decided that Alice Warder was the one who was to share through -all their future Erskine's love and care. She grew more than reconciled; -she told herself that she was perfectly happy in Erskine's choice; that -of course she wanted him to marry, she had always wanted it; and where -in all the earth could he have found a more lovely character or a more -entirely acceptable person in every way than Alice Warder? It really -seemed as though a special Providence had planned and created them each -for the other. - -As the intimacy deepened, so that the three seemed to think in unison, -the mother told herself cheerfully that it was almost as though the two -were married already; there would be no strange chasm to bridge over -when that time came; nor would they have to readjust themselves in any -way. Alice had not known a mother's love and care since childhood, and -she turned as naturally to Mrs. Burnham for mothering as though they -were really mother and daughter. It was all ideal. - -There were times, of course, when Mrs. Burnham could not help sitting in -secret judgment on certain ways and words of this daughter of hers. She -would allow herself to wish that this or that had been different, and -then would bring herself to order with severity, assuring herself that -she had no right to expect perfection, and where, on this earth, could -there be found another girl so near it as Alice? - -Over one phase of the girl's life this mother in all sincerity rejoiced. -Alice was unquestionably and deeply religious. Her Christian life was -deep-rooted and pervasive, and the perfume of its flowering filled her -days. To come in contact with her for even a short interview was to -discover that religion with her was not merely a duty, but a joy. - -"Alice is very unusual in this respect," Ruth said to Erskine. "It isn't -simply that she is regular and methodical in her Christianity as in -everything else. I have seen girls before who went to prayer-meeting, -for instance, regularly, from a sense of duty; but with Alice it is -this, and something more. She looks forward to it as a pleasure; and she -comes from it uplifted and advanced in her Christian experience." - -Erskine was hearty in his response. - -"Yes, Alice takes hold of life generally with a kind of joyful -enthusiasm that is delicious. And there is contagion in it; I enjoy the -mid-week meetings better myself, since I have learned to plan for them -as she does." - -Everything considered, that last year of college life passed all too -quickly, at least for Mrs. Burnham. There were times when she realized -that the peculiarly close relations which she and her son had sustained -for four beautiful winters could not, in reason, continue, and she -shrank from any change. Yet for the most part she was strong in her -gratitude that her son's college life had been what it had been, and -that the most censorious could not discover any evil results from this -long, close fellowship with his mother. There were still years of study -for him. It had been decided that he would study law in the city where -his father had practised it, and live at the old homestead, making daily -trips to and from the larger city. In due course of time, therefore, -they were once more settled at home for an indefinite period. Alice -Warder had gone to the coast of Maine for a long-promised visit among -her mother's relatives, but on her return, the Warders were again to -become next-door neighbors. - -Already in her letters to Mrs. Burnham, which were quite as frequent as -those to Erskine, Alice Warder was planning certain functions in which -"You and father, and Erskine and I" were in evidence. - -There was one feature of the situation that troubled the mother. As the -days passed the question which it involved grew more and more insistent. -Why did not Erskine, at least, confide in her? Had he not from his very -babyhood been in the habit of bringing to her not only every joy and -sorrow, but every passing emotion or fancy, however trivial, until she -had believed them as nearly one as it was possible for two people to -become? Why then, in this supreme decision of his life, had she in a -sense been counted out? No hint as to his new hopes and plans had been -put into words for her; she had simply been left like the rest of the -world to take things for granted. - -There were times when this question probed her keenly. She struggled to -discover whether she had been in fault. Despite her earnest efforts to -hold herself well in check and give no sign of certain emotions which -every true mother must feel at such an hour, had she failed? Had she -appeared cold, or indifferent, or, worse than either, jealous? Despite -her careful cross-examination of herself she could not lay her finger -upon any word or act that she could make different; and she was obliged -to content herself with redoubling her efforts to show her entire -acceptance of Alice as one of them; but so far as any special -confidences were concerned she did it in vain. Both Erskine and Alice -were entirely frank in their manifest interest in each other, acting at -all times as though they had nothing to conceal. They had even reached -the stage when they claimed each other's time and attention as a matter -of course, and so expressed themselves. - -Erskine, for instance, would glance at a note that had been laid on his -desk a short time before, and explain to his mother:-- - -"I shall have to defer my call on Dr. West, mother, until some other -evening. Alice has to meet her committee at the hall, and wants me to -take her over." - -Could anything, argued the mother, indicate more surely that they two -had already passed the early stages of sentiment, and begun to realize -that they belonged to each other for convenience as well as for love? -Then why did they not confide in his mother, _their_ mother? - -No comparatively small matter had ever troubled Ruth Burnham more than -did this one. There were times when she felt almost indignant, and was -on the verge of saying to them both that she did not think she deserved -such careless treatment at their hands. Why, her very intimate friends -were almost asking when the wedding was to be! There were other times -when she told herself that she would not be the first to speak, even -though they kept silence until the wedding day was come. - -Matters were in this state when she reached another distinct milestone -in the singularly marked journey of her life. - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - "MOTHERS ARE QUEER!" - - -IT was but the week before Alice's expected return, and Mrs. Burnham was -out paying afternoon visits. She had confessed to Erskine that she -wanted to get them off of her mind before Alice came, and be able to -give undivided attention to her for a while. - -"I don't suppose you can imagine how I have missed her," she added in a -voice that she intended to express archness, but which was almost -wistful. He felt the wistfulness and mistook its cause, and said -tenderly:-- - -"Poor little mother! you need a daughter, don't you?" - -She had turned from him abruptly to hide the glimmer of tears; and she -had told herself almost angrily afterward that it was time she had -learned self-control. - -At the home of one of her friends she met a Mrs. Carson, with whom she -had also a calling acquaintance. Mrs. Carson had been spending some -weeks in Boston, and had no sooner exchanged greetings with Mrs. Burnham -than she brought out with eager hand from her news budget a choice -morsel. - -"And what do you both think I heard just before I left the city? At -first I could scarcely believe my ears; in fact, I did not credit the -news at all; I said it could not be so; I am sure, dear Mrs. Burnham, -you will understand why. But afterward it was so signally confirmed that -I was obliged to accept it." - -"Dear me!" said the hostess, "this is quite exciting. Do enlighten us, -Mrs. Carson. We have been so humdrum here this fall that news is thrice -welcome." - -"You would never guess my news, I am sure, that is, you would not, Mrs. -Webster; but there sits our dear Mrs. Burnham, looking as calm and -unconcerned as usual, though I presume she has known all about it this -long time." - -"Now you arouse my curiosity, certainly," that lady said with a quiet -smile. "I don't recall any special news from Boston, of late." - -"Oh, well, I don't suppose it is late news to you, but it certainly was -to me. Why, Mrs. Webster, I have it on excellent authority that our -friend Alice Warder is engaged to her cousin, Ranford Colchester, and -the marriage is to take place very soon. Now do you wonder that I was -simply amazed over such an announcement?" - -Mrs. Burnham took her startled nerves into instant and stern check, and -was entirely silent while Mrs. Webster exclaimed and expostulated. - -"I told you you wouldn't be able to believe it," said the gratified -news-dealer. "Such a surprise to us all! and yet you see this naughty -woman doesn't express any, and hasn't a word to say for herself! Dear -Mrs. Burnham, it isn't necessary I suppose for us to confess that we -have been waiting these many weeks for the formal announcement of her -engagement to an entirely different person? Her cousin, indeed! why I -thought they were the same as brother and sister. I was never more -surprised in my life. At first I simply disputed it and assured my -friends that Alice Warder was as good as married, already. But it came -to me too straight to be disputed. It's this way. My aunt has a young -niece living with her this year who is a very intimate friend of Miriam -Stevens, and she, you know, is Mr. Colchester's stepdaughter; and she -told her all about it. It seems, although they have been engaged for a -very long time, years and years, Miriam said, the engagement has just -been announced. Mr. Colchester, the father, of course, has opposed the -match, because it interfered with some of his pet plans. There was an -old love story connected with it, don't you know, and a good deal of -sentiment and obstinacy on the part of the old gentleman, who has always -thought that the world was made for his convenience. But he found that -his son could be obstinate too; he was willing to marry Alice Warder, -and he would never, no never, marry anybody else. Then Alice decided -that she would show a little spirit, and she refused to come into the -family so long as there was a breath of opposition. Nobody knows just -what has happened, at least Miriam doesn't; but she says that her -stepfather has not only withdrawn his opposition, but seems quite as -eager as his son to have the marriage take place. Miriam did not think -that the day had been fixed yet, but she felt sure it would be not later -than Christmas. Now, isn't that a romantic story, and a startling one? -Just think how that girl has stolen a march on us when we thought we -understood all about her future, and were breathlessly awaiting our -invitations to the wedding! And here sits our dear Mrs. Burnham, looking -as unconcerned as possible; though all this while she has been helping -deceive us into the belief that Alice Warder was almost her daughter!" - -How Ruth Burnham got away from their volubility and their playful -accusations and their congratulations she was never afterward able to -clearly explain, even to herself. She knew that her brain felt on fire, -and every nerve in her body seemed to be quivering, but she also knew -that she had one supreme determination, not by word or glance to betray -consternation or surprise or indeed feeling of any sort. Since these -women believed that she had deceived them, let them by all means -continue to do so, at least until she could determine what she thought, -or what she was to say. - -She knew that she preserved her outward calm, and made some commonplace -reply to the eager questioning exclamations showered upon her. She -remembered murmuring something about young people's secrets being sacred -to themselves, and then she got herself away and walked the seven -squares between her and her home, and wished that there were more of -them, that she might have time to steady herself and plan what step to -take next. How, for instance, was she to break this terrible piece of -news to Erskine? - -To her astonishment she found that she was giving full credit to the -story. Although the details had been too minute and the source of -information too terribly reliable to admit of reasonable doubt, yet her -reason told her that she ought to be able to turn in contempt from such -a story. How was it possible for Alice Warder to be guilty of such -long-drawn-out unpardonable hypocrisy as this? Alice Warder of all women -in the world! How had it been possible for her to deceive Erskine in -this way? Why had she done it? What could have been her motive? Had she -simply and deliberately flirted with him, to show that insufferable old -man that there were others besides his son who wanted her? Poor Erskine! -poor trusting, deceived heart! What could his mother do or say to soften -such a revelation as this! Finally she walked quite past her own door, -adding several more blocks to the already long distance, before she had -herself under sufficient control to meet her son. For the first time in -her life she was glad that he was not in when she reached home; and glad -again that when he came a friend was with him, who remained to dinner. -This enabled her to watch Erskine closely, without his observing it, and -to determine whether he might have heard from some other source the -strange news. - -She decided that he had not; he was even more full of good cheer than -usual, and referred several times to Alice, as his guest was also her -friend. - -Mrs. Burnham's unusual quiet finally called forth solicitous inquiries -from her son. Had she overwearied herself that afternoon? Had there been -any accident or detention that had worn upon her? She made haste to -reassure him, and struggled to appear at ease; while all the time her -mind was busy with the problem of how to break her news to Erskine. The -more she thought about it, the more strangely improbable it seemed. -Alice Warder engaged to be married to any one but Erskine! As for the -cruel wickedness of the girl whom she had loved and trusted as a -daughter, the woman who felt herself betrayed could not trust her -thoughts just yet in that direction. She must give all there was of her -to Erskine. - -When their visitor had gone, Erskine gave himself in earnest to anxiety -about his mother. - -"I cannot remember ever to have seen you look so wan and worn. Is it -simply the making calls that has exhausted you? I remember I used to -notice that that was an exhausting function for you. I wouldn't do it -any more, Mommie; let people come to you. Where did you go? and what was -said to tire you so? or was it what they didn't say? I have noticed that -ladies when making calls never seem to really say anything. They talk a -good deal, but then!--" - -If he only knew what they had said that day! How should she tell him? - -They went to the library; Erskine bemoaning the fact that he had some -work which must be done, and could not read to her. But he would -establish her among the cushions where she could rest, and he could look -at her occasionally. So she lay there, outwardly quiet, looking steadily -at him as though she must see his very soul, and going on with her -problem. Was she being cruel, too, lying quietly there concealing a -weapon with which she was presently to stab him? If she could only -decide upon the least terrible way of telling him what she had heard! -She planned and discarded a dozen forms of speech, and finally plunged -headlong into the baldest and most commonplace of them. - -Erskine had risen to close a door, and then had come to adjust her -cushions and ask if she were comfortable. And then--should she like him -by and by, when he had run over two or three more pages, to read to her? -There was a magazine article he had been saving up to enjoy with her. Or -was she too tired to-night for reading? - -And she had caught his hand and held it in a nervous grip while she -exploded her news. - -"I heard something very strange this afternoon, Erskine; something that -I do not in the least understand. I don't know how to credit it, yet it -came to me very straight. Mrs. Carson has just returned from Boston, and -has it, she says, from one of the family that Alice Warder is soon to be -married to her cousin." - -She felt breathless. She did not know whether to look at her victim or -to look mercifully away from him. He was leaning forward in the act of -tucking a refractory cushion into place, and he persisted in conquering -the cushion before he spoke. Then he said cheerfully: - -"That is out at last, is it? Alice must feel relieved." - -His mother pushed all the cushions recklessly and sat upright. - -"Erskine," she said eagerly, "what do you mean? You don't mean, you -_can't_ mean that you knew it all the while!" - -"Why not, mother? have known it for months, might say years. It had to -be a profound secret, though, on account of old Mr. Colchester's state -of mind; he had other plans, you see, and at first he utterly refused to -side with the young people; then Alice refused to enter the family so -long as there was any objection to her, and also refused to have her -engagement made public; it has been a long, wearisome time; I am glad -for both of them that the struggle is over. I have served them to the -best of my abilities, but I can see that the new order of things will be -a comfort to both; to all three of us indeed." - -He laughed a little over that last admission, but his mother had not yet -recovered from her first amazement. - -"Erskine, why didn't you tell me?" - -He laughed again and bent over to kiss her. - -"Mommie, you speak as though at the least I had committed forgery. How -could I tell you, dearest? It was another's secret. Alice was absurdly -sensitive, it is true, but of course I had to respect her wishes. She is -not accustomed to being objected to, you know. There was a sense in -which I came upon their secret at first, by accident, which served to -make me doubly careful; I did not feel that I could speak of it even to -you; though I will own that I thought it extremely foolish in Alice not -to do so. - -"Do you feel like being read to, mamma, or would you rather be entirely -quiet to-night? Do you feel a little bit rested?" - -"Yes, indeed," she told him eagerly. She was very much rested; in fact -she did not feel tired at all; she would like exceedingly to be read to; -or she was ready to do anything that he wished. - -He looked at her curiously, and a trifle anxiously. There was something -about his mother this evening that he did not understand. A few minutes -ago she had looked pale and worn to a degree that was unusual; now her -cheeks were flushed and her eyes were very bright. Could she be -feverish? he wondered. And he mentally vowed vengeance on all formal -calls. - -It was nearly a week afterward that Erskine and Alice, walking home -together from some society function, lapsed into confidential talk. - -"How did you find my mother?" Erskine asked. "Was she able to be as glad -over it all as you could wish?" - -"She was lovely," said Alice, enthusiastically. "An own mother could not -have shown more tenderness and lovingness. I have missed my mother all -my life, Erskine, but I shall miss her less, even during this time when -a girl needs her mother most, because you are so kind in lending me -yours." - -"And yet, do you know, I think she has lately suffered a shock and a -disappointment? I am nearly certain that she had cherished hopes which -included us both. I did not realize until very lately indeed that she -too was being deceived; else I must have insisted on her being taken -into confidence." - -Alice's merry laugh astonished and almost vexed him, her first words -were more surprising still. - -"So you thought she was disappointed? What bats men are, to be sure!" - -"What do you mean? Do you not know that to my mother you are the one -young woman?" - -"Oh, indeed I do, and rejoice in it. But I know also, my dear simpleton, -that she is almost deliriously happy at this moment over her late -discovery. I know she loves me almost as she could a daughter, and I -also know that she loves me more, oh, far more, because her son Erskine -is a brother to me instead of--something else." - -His puzzled look made her laugh again. - -But after that he studied his mother from a new standpoint. Certainly -she was very fond of Alice and was about to lose her; yet certainly she -was happy--happier than he had ever known her to be. - -"Mothers are queer!" was his grave conclusion. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - A SPOILED MOTHER - - -IT had been an ideal October day: one of those ravishing days that come -sometimes in late autumn when, though the air is crisp with the hint of -a coming winter, it is at the same time balmy with the memory of the -departed summer. The hills in the near distance had put on their -glorified autumn dress, and the flowers in the gardens were all of the -gorgeous or deep-toned colorings that tell of summer suns and autumn -crispness. It was, in short, one of those days when it is, or should be, -a delight simply to live. - -The Burnham place had never looked more lovely than it did that -afternoon, bathed in the soft glory of an unusually brilliant -sun-setting. It was customary to speak of this as the old Burnham place; -yet nothing in Ruth Erskine Burnham's changeful life showed more -markedly the effect of change than did this. - -The long, low, rambling, old-fashioned house, much in need of paint, -that Ruth had come to as a bride, was there still, but so altered that -even she had all but forgotten the original. The house and the grounds -had been, like many other things and persons, transformed. No spot -anywhere, for miles around, was such a source of pride and pleasure to -the old friends of that region as the Burnham place. There were those -still living who could tell in minutest detail the story of its -transformation, when the Judge's new wife came out there to live, and -astonished the country by her doings. Some of them had been more than -half afraid of Ruth in those early days; they all believed in her now. - -She had come out to the upper porch for a moment, not so much to get a -view of the wonderful sunset as to get her breath. The house was full of -flowers, and they had seemed to stifle her. - -A handsome woman still was Mrs. Burnham. Stately was one of the words -that people had been wont to use in describing her; she was stately yet, -though her son Erskine would soon celebrate his thirtieth birthday. - -These later years had touched her lightly. They had been spent, for the -most part, in the cheerful quiet of their old home, which, although the -city had grown out to it, had yet not absorbed it, but allowed its -favored residents to have much of the pleasures of country life, with a -rapid transit into the heart of the great city as often as life of that -kind was desired. - -Erskine had for several years been admitted to the bar, and the old firm -name that had meant so much in legal circles had once more the strong -name of Burnham associated with it. That her son was a legal success was -not a surprise to his mother. With such antecedents as his how could it -have been otherwise? She had not kept up with his legal studies as she -had almost done through his college course, but she had kept in touch -with them, and could copy his notes for him, giving him just the points -he needed--better, he told her, than he could do it himself. - -"We will take you into the firm if you say so, dearest," he said gayly -one evening, after a spirited argument between them with regard to a -point of law in which Mrs. Burnham had vindicated her side by an appeal -to an undoubted authority. "I told Judge Hallowell, yesterday, that it -was easier to consult you than to look up a point, and did just as well. -He would agree to the partnership, mother, without hesitation; he -considers you a wonderful woman." - -At which the happy mother laughed, and told him he was a wonderful -flatterer; and then--Did he want her to look up the evidence in that -Brainard case for him? She could do it as well as not. She had been -reading up about it that morning. - -An ideal life they had lived together all these years, this mother and -son. More than once in the years gone by Mrs. Burnham had overheard some -such remark as: "It will be hard on that mother when Erskine marries, -will it not?" It used to annoy her a little. She was conscious of a -feeling very like resentment that people should consider it necessary to -discuss their affairs at all; especially to intimate that there would -ever be anything "hard" between them. - -There had been other talk, too, that she had resented. It had been -noticed that Judge Hallowell, Judge Burnham's lifelong friend, came -often to the old Burnham place, and somebody got up a very sentimental -reason for his never having married; and somebody else objected that -Mrs. Burnham did not believe in second marriages; she had been heard to -go so far as to say she thought they were actually wrong. Then somebody -else looked wise and smiled, and said she had heard of people, before -this, who changed their opinions about such things, on occasion. And-- -How would such a masterful young man as Erskine get on with a -stepfather? This bit of gossip had floated about the Burnhams for a year -or more, while Erskine was studying law, without their having been the -wiser for it. The day for the wedding had almost been set, still without -reference to them, when Judge Hallowell, sixty years old though he was, -suddenly brought home a wife; and that, without an hour's break in the -friendship between himself and the Burnhams. - -By degrees, the form of the question which the talkers asked each other -slightly changed, and they said they were afraid it would be hard on -Mrs. Burnham if Erskine should ever marry, and they added that it wasn't -probable that he ever would. They even ventured, one or two of the more -intimate, or the more rude, to express some such thought to the mother -herself. When they did, she laughed lightly and bade them not be sure of -anything. Her son might astonish them all, yet. She was sure she hoped -so. She was sincere in this. As each year passed she told herself more -and more firmly that of course she wanted him to marry. Why shouldn't -she want him to find that lovely being who must have been foreordained -for him? She was sure now, after all her long years of experience with -him, that she should know the very first moment when he discovered her. -Of course she had not been through the years since Alice Warder was -married without more than once imagining that she had been discovered. -They had numbered some very lovely young women among their friends. -There had been a certain Miriam whom she had admired and liked and -almost loved, and had meant to love in earnest if Erskine really wished -it. And she had gone about the finding out very cautiously. Didn't he -think Miriam was pretty? - -"Very pretty indeed," he had answered promptly. - -And she was so sweet and winsome, so thoughtful of her elders, so -gracious to everybody; quite unlike many others in that respect. - -He was quick to agree with this, also. - -Didn't he think her delightful in conversation? She seemed able to -converse sensibly on any subject that was under discussion, as well as -to talk the most delicious nonsense, on occasion. - -"Well," he said cheerfully. In that respect he must differ from her. He -could not say he thought the young woman especially gifted in -conversation; it seemed to him to be her weak point. If she could talk -as well as her grandmother, she would be charming. - -Mrs. Burnham had argued loyally for her favorite; had assured her son -that Miriam was a charming talker when she chose, and that it was -ridiculous to think of comparing her with her grandmother! But she had -laughed light-heartedly at his folly, and had confessed to her secret -self that she was glad he liked the grandmother better. - -There were several other temporary interests, and then the mother -settled down to restfulness. Erskine was a boy no longer, but a -full-grown man, doing a man's work in the world; she could trust him. He -had always confided in her and of course he would not fail to do so when -this supreme hour of his life came to him. She still wanted him to -marry; she believed that he would, some day. She promised herself that -she would be, when the time came, a perfect mother. She would love the -chosen one with all her heart; she should be second only to Erskine -himself. And she would give herself to helping them both to be so happy, -anticipating their wishes and aiding and abetting all their plans, that -they would be glad to have her with them always. And always she closed -these hours of planning with a long-drawn sigh of satisfaction that they -were all in the dim future. - -Erskine Burnham had passed his thirtieth birthday before he had been -separated from his mother for more than a few days at a time. It was -early in the May following the thirtieth anniversary when the break -came. He went abroad then, on legal business of importance. - -"Shall you take your mother over with you?" Judge Hallowell had asked, -but a short time before he started; and he had answered quickly: "Oh, -yes, indeed; I couldn't think of leaving mother alone, with the ocean -between us; she is too much accustomed to my daily care for that. -Moreover, I think a sea voyage will be good for her." - -But his mother met him at the door, that afternoon, open letter in hand, -and the grave announcement that she had bad news for him. - -"What is it, dearest?" he had asked composedly, as he bent to kiss her. -It occurred to him then there could be no very bad news for either of -them so long as they stood there together, safe and well. - -"It is Alice; she is ill, very ill they are afraid, and her husband -writes that she wants me immediately. They think, Erskine, that there -will have to be an operation, and she feels that she cannot go through -it without me. I fill the place of mother to her, you know, dear." - -Erskine did not take his disappointment easily. He was used to having -his own way, and he had planned a delightful outing for his mother. He -argued the question strenuously, and was loath to admit that his -mother's duty lay elsewhere, and that he must go abroad without her. - -"It is hard on my mother," he said discontentedly to Judge Hallowell. -But he admitted to himself that it was quite as hard for him; he hated -travelling alone. - -For Mrs. Burnham the summer had dragged. For thirty years she had lived -for her son. Why should life without him be called living? It was harder -for her because her sacrifice proved to be unnecessary. The surgical -operation was, after all, postponed; there was some hope that it would -not have to be at all; and Alice herself had gone abroad with her -husband: not by Erskine's route, but on a sailing vessel, making the -ocean trip as long as possible. - -Mrs. Burnham had stayed to do the thousand and one little things for the -invalid that a mother would naturally do, and to see her fairly started -on her journey, and then had come back to her lonely home: what -might-have-been crowding itself discontentedly among her thoughts. She -had lost her summer with Erskine for nothing, she told herself. Still, -the summer was going; it would not be long now. - -Erskine had written to her daily, mailing his letters as opportunity -offered. At first the letters were long, very long and full; it was -almost like seeing the old world with him. Then, as business matters -pressed him, and social functions growing out of business relations -consumed more and more of his time, they shortened, often to a few -hurried lines. - -Sometimes there was only the date at a late hour, and "Good night, -mother dear. This has been my 'busy day.' Interesting things have -happened. Heaps to tell you when I get home, which I hope now will be -soon. Perhaps in my very next I can set the date." - -She had lived on his letters, watching for each as eagerly as a maiden -might watch for word from her lover. Was he not her lover? All she had -in all the world, she told herself proudly, and was satisfied, and -smiled over that word, "Dearest," that fell as naturally from his pen as -from his lips. - -That next letter in which perhaps he would set the date of his return -was waited for in almost feverish impatience. There was so much she -wanted to do just before he came. She had planned to set the house and -grounds in festive array as for the coming of a conqueror. Actually his -first home-coming of any note in which she was there to greet him! -Always before they had come together. - -The watched-for letter was delayed. There occurred a longer interval by -several days than there had been before, between letters. Mrs. Burnham -allowed herself to grow almost nervous over this, and watched the -newspapers hourly, glancing over foreign items in feverish haste. She -talked about the strangeness of this delay with her friends, until the -most sympathetic among them laughed a little and told each other that -that spoiled mother was really absurd! And at last it came. - -She remembered--she will always remember that October evening when, the -shades being drawn close and a brisk fire burning in the grate, she had -seated herself near it in a luxurious reading chair and, merely for -company, had pushed Erskine's favorite easy-chair just opposite and -laughed a little at her folly, and tried to assure herself that young -Ben had returned long ago with the evening mail, which had to be sent -for, if one could not wait until morning. And then--Ben's step had -crunched on the gravel outside, and she had held her breath to listen, -and--in another minute it lay in her lap! A thick letter, when she had -expected only a few hurried lines. It was almost like the steamer letter -that he had written her on going out. It couldn't be a steamer letter! -not yet! She seized it eagerly and studied the postmark. Could he be -coming so soon that this was really her last letter? - -How silly she was! her hand trembled so that the thin foreign paper -rattled in her grasp. There were many sheets written fine and full. - -But it was not a steamer letter; he was still in Paris. - -She made herself wait until she gave careful attention to Ellen, who -appeared just then, answering all her questions, directing her in minute -detail as to a piece of next morning's work, having her add another -block to the fire and rearrange the windows before she finally dismissed -her. - -At last she was fairly into her letter. She read rapidly at first, -devouring the pages with her eyes. Then, more slowly, stopping over one -page, re-reading it, a third, a fourth time; staring at it, with a -strange look in her eyes. Suddenly she dropped them, all the thin -rustling sheets, and covered her face with both hands. - -It seemed to her afterward that she spent a lifetime shut up with that -foreign letter. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - SENTIMENT AND SACRIFICE - - -THE woman on the upper porch who had come out to get her breath had in a -short time passed through so many phases of feeling as to be hardly able -to recognize herself. She had lived ten days since that bulky foreign -letter had seemed to change the current of her life and set it -flowing--when indeed it flowed again--in another channel. - -In truth, Ruth Erskine Burnham, as she stood there ostensibly watching -the sunset, was reviewing the days in a half-frightened, half-shamefaced -way. She had always, even in young girlhood, been self-controlled. Why -could she not hold herself in better check even though her world had -suddenly turned to--stop! she would not say it! What had happened to -her, after all, but that which fell to the lot of mothers? It was not as -though some terrible calamity had overtaken her, and yet--could she have -done differently if it had been? She went back in thought to that -evening ten days away and looked at herself as though she were another -person looking on. She even smiled faintly at the absurdity of that -foolish woman's first action, before she had finished reading the -letter. She had risen suddenly and turned off the light, and pushed up -every window to its highest, and rolled back the curtains and let in a -whirl of wind that had made the foreign sheets fly about as though they -were things of life. Then, aided only by the firelight, she had stooped -and clutched after them and held them for a second to her breast and -then, suddenly, had thrown them from her with a low cry of pain. The -woman on the upper porch looking at the sunset smiled at that -half-insane woman of ten days ago and wondered that she could have so -far forgotten herself. Why should there have been any such outburst as -that, when Erskine was well and--and happy. She shivered a little even -now over the word, and drew her wrap closer and told herself that as -soon as the sun disappeared the chill came. Then she went back to her -review and reminded herself firmly that there had been no calamity to -any one; there was nothing but joy. Erskine was not only well and happy, -but he was coming home. He was coming to-night! No, she must not say -"he" any more; _they_ were coming. Forever and ever after this it must -be "they": her son and daughter. That to which she had looked forward -for so many years with varying emotions had come upon her. Erskine was a -married man; and to-night he was bringing home his bride. She had said -over the words aloud, that day, when she was quite alone, trying to make -herself feel that she was speaking of her son. It was all so sudden, so -utterly different from any imaginings of hers, and she thought that she -had gone over in her imaginings the whole wide range of possibilities. - -That long letter over which she had spent a strange night, believed that -it was giving her the minutest particulars of this strange thing. - -Erskine had met the woman who was now his wife on his first evening in -Paris, and from the very first had been attracted to her by his sympathy -with her unprotected condition. Her only friend and companion in a -strange land was a maiden aunt who was an invalid. Indeed it was for her -sake that they were lingering in France, because she was not able to -travel; she had been made worse by the ocean voyage, instead of better -as had been hoped. Irene had been very closely confined with her for -many weeks, and welcomed a face and voice from home as only those can -understand who have themselves been cast adrift among foreigners. He had -been able to do a few little things for the comfort of the invalid, and -the gratitude of both ladies was almost embarrassing. They were staying -at the same hotel, and as they chanced at that time to be almost the -only Americans, at least the only ones belonging to their world, they -naturally saw much of each other. As the aunt grew more and more feeble -and Irene became entirely dependent on him not only for what little rest -and recreation she got, but for all those offices which members of the -same family can do for each other in a time of illness, their friendship -made rapid strides. Then, when her aunt was suddenly taken alarmingly -ill, and after a few days of really terrible suffering died, leaving -Irene alone in a strange land, her situation was pitiable. He would have -to confess that he did not know just what she would have done, had he -not been there to care for her. - -"Of course, mother, you do not need to have me tell you that long before -this I knew that I had met the one woman in all the world who could ever -become my wife. The reason that I had not mentioned her in any of my -letters was that I could not, even on paper, speak of her casually, as -of any ordinary acquaintance, and I had no right to speak in any other -way. Then, when I had the right to tell you everything, it was so near -my home-coming that I determined to leave it until you and I were face -to face, and I could answer all your questions and look into your dear -eyes and receive from you the sympathy that has never failed me and I -know never will. Nothing was farther from our thoughts at that time than -immediate marriage. Indeed it would have seemed preposterous to me, as -it would have been under any other circumstances, to be married without -your knowledge and presence. But when this unexpected blow came, I -realized the almost impossibility of any other course, although, even -then, I had the greatest difficulty in persuading Irene to take such a -step. She had to be convinced through some annoying experiences of the -folly of her hesitation. I do not know that even you, with your long -experience, realize the difference between this country and ours in -matters of etiquette. Things which at home would be done as a -matter-of-course are so unusual here as to be almost, if not quite, -questionable; and the number of purely business details that loomed up -to be managed by that lonely homesick girl simply appalled her. She sank -under them, physically, and I plainly saw that she simply must have my -help and care day and night. Why, even the nurse who had attended her -aunt, deserted us! that is, she was summoned away by telegraph. In -short, mamma, there was literally no other course for us than the one we -took; although it had to be taken at the sacrifice of a good deal of -sentiment on the part of both. It is a continual relief to me to -remember that I am writing to a sane and reasonable woman, who is in the -habit of weighing questions carefully, and who, when she decides that a -thing is right, does it without regard to sentiment or adverse opinion. -But oh, mommie, it was hard not to have you with us." - -There was more in the letter, much more. Erskine had exhausted language -and repeated himself again and again in his effort to make everything -very clear and convincing. - -He had been skilful also in his attempt to make his mother see the woman -of his choice with his eyes. - -"She will appeal to your sympathies, mamma," he had written. "Although -she is so young, barely twenty-six, she has been through much trouble -and sorrow. She is an orphan, and has been for four years a widow. I -need hardly add that her short married life was unhappy and so sad that -she can scarcely speak of that year even to me. Of course it is an -experience that I shall do my utmost to make her forget; and I need not -speak of it again. I wanted you to know, dear mother, that you and I -have much to make up to her. She was made fatherless and motherless in a -single day, when she was a child of sixteen. I like to think of what you -will be to her, dearest mother; a revelation, I am sure, of mother-love; -for besides being so young when she lost hers, there are mothers, and -_mothers_, you know, and I am sure Irene does not understand it very -well; Do you know, she is half afraid of you? She has read a few of your -letters, and has caught an idea of what we are to each other, and talks -mournfully about coming between us! as though any one ever could! I have -assured her that I am simply bringing to you the daughter for whom your -heart has always longed." - -It was at that point that Ruth Burnham had flung the sheets away from -her and buried her face in her hands. - -But ten days had passed since then, and she had long known, by heart, -all that that letter could tell her. - -And now, in less than another hour, they would be at home! her son and -daughter! - -She had not gone to New York to meet the incoming steamer, as had been -arranged, or rather, as it had once arranged itself, quite as a matter -of course. - -"Think how delightful it will be, when you stand on the dock watching -the incoming steamer, and straining your eyes to discover which -frantically waved handkerchief is mine!" - -This was what Erskine had said as he gave her one of her good-by kisses. - -She had replied that she would recognize his handkerchief among a -thousand. - -In the earlier letters much had been said about that home-coming, and -elaborate plans had been made as to what they would do together in New -York. But in that last long letter, on the margin of the last page, as -though it had been an afterthought, were these words:-- - -"On the whole, mother, we believe that it would be better for you not to -try to meet us in New York. Irene has no love for that city; it was the -scene of some of her sorrows. She wants to stop there only long enough -to call upon her cousins; and we are both in such frantic haste to be at -home that we shall make the delay as short as possible; so we think it -would be less fatiguing to you to avoid that trip and be at home to -welcome us." - -Ruth Burnham said over that sentence as she stood on that upper veranda, -waiting to welcome them. She had said it a hundred times before. What -was there about it that jarred? She could not have told, in words; yet -the jar was there. - -Could it be that continually recurring "we"? Was she going to be a -jealous woman, with all the rest? So meanly jealous as that? "God -forbid!" she said the words aloud, and solemnly. - -She knew that she needed the help of God in this crisis of her life; -since the news of it came to her she had spent hours on her knees -seeking his strength. She wanted Erskine to say "we" and think "we" and -to be supremely happy,--not only in his married life, but to have that -life all that it could be to two souls. And yet--Would it have been -wrong for him, in that first letter, to have remembered that she had -been used all his life to being the "we" of his thoughts, and to have -said simply "I" once or twice? Of course she could never any more be -"dearest"--his special name for her; but--was he never again for a -little while to be just himself, to her? And must she learn to think -"they" and never "him"? - -Oh, she didn't mean any of this, she told herself nervously, and she -must get her thoughts away at once. Of course she would say "Erskine and -Irene" now, always, and forever. Or should she put it, "Irene and -Erskine"? Could she? Perhaps that would help. Did other mothers, waiting -for the home-coming of their married sons, have such strange thoughts as -haunted her? - -There was Mrs. Adams, for instance, whose three sons had all been -married within a few years. And Mrs. Adams had not seemed to care. Well, -as to that, neither would she seem to; and she drew herself up -instinctively. But Mrs. Adams had four boys; five, indeed; the youngest -of them was almost as tall as his mother, while she--"The only son of -his mother, and she was a widow." The words seemed to repeat themselves -in her brain like a dull undertone refrain. - -Other words that had nothing whatever to do with the situation, but that -had been familiar to her girlhood, came back and stupidly repeated -themselves:-- - -"Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east." But that was wildness, -and utter folly! Erskine would be ashamed of her and with reason, could -he know--which he never should--that such fancies had been tolerated for -a moment. - -Outwardly Mrs. Burnham was irreproachable. So was her home. In the ten -days following that letter she had given time and thought to its -adorning. She was a model housekeeper, and to have Erskine's rooms -always in spotless order had been one of her pleasures. But they had -been very thoroughly gone over, and whereever it was possible to add a -touch of beauty, it had been done. - -Already she had drawn the shades and lighted up brilliantly, for at this -season the twilights were very brief. She had paused, on her way to the -veranda, to take a final critical survey, and had told herself that she -did not know how to make an added touch. And then she went swiftly to -her own room and brought therefrom a vase of roses and set them on the -dressing-table of the bride. The vase was a costly trifle that Erskine -had brought her just before he went abroad, and the roses were his -special favorites. She had kept that vase filled with them on her table -ever since she reached home. - -For herself, she was dressed in white: Erskine's favorite home dress for -her, summer and winter. Indeed he was almost absurd about it, never -quite liking to see her in any other attire. "I suppose you will want me -to dress in white when I am eighty!" she had said to him once, -laughingly. His reply had been quick. "Of course I shall. What could be -more appropriate for a beautiful old lady? You will be beautiful, -dearest, but I cannot think that you will ever be old." - -So, on this evening, although she had taken down a black silk and looked -at it wistfully, she had resolutely hung it away again, and brought out -a white cashmere richly trimmed with white silk. This was a festive -evening and she must honor it with one of her prettiest dresses. - -All at once as she stood there, waiting, her heart seemed for a moment -to stop its beating. She clutched at the railing to prevent her falling, -and made a stern and effectual protest. "This is ridiculous! I will not -faint, and I shall do nothing to mar his home-coming, or to give him -occasion to be ashamed of me." - -But she stood still, although the carriage that had gone to the station -to meet the bridal party was whirling around the corner, was turning in -at the carriage drive, was stopping before the door. They were getting -out. They were on the porch, they were in the hall; she could hear her -son's voice:-- - -"Where is my mother?" - -And she was not there as she had meant to be to welcome them! she was -still on the upper veranda, steadying herself by the railing and feeling -it impossible to take a single step. - - - - - CHAPTER X - - "SENTIMENTAL" PEOPLE - - -ERSKINE came up the stairs in quick leaps. "Mother!" he was calling. -"Mother! Where are you? Why, mommie!" and he had her in his arms. - -"I thought I should be sure to see you the moment the carriage turned -the corner! Are you ill, mother? What is the matter?" - -Was there reproach in his voice? There was something that gave back his -mother's self-command. - -"It is tardiness," she said lightly. "The carriage came sooner than I -had thought it possible. O Erskine, it is good to hear your voice -again." - -He kept his arms about her and was half smothering her in kisses while -he talked. Yet his tones had that note in them which held her in check. - -"Irene will think this a strange welcome home, I am afraid; I had to -leave her in the hall with the maids while I came in search of you." - -"We will go down at once," said his mother; and she withdrew herself -from his arms and led the way. - -"She is very pretty." This was Mrs. Burnham's mental tribute to her new -daughter, as they stood together on the side porch after breakfast. It -was the morning after the arrival of the bride and groom. They had been -drawn thither by Erskine, who had walked back and forth with an arm -about each, bewailing the fact that he could not spare even one day for -his wife in her new home, but must get at once to business. In the midst -of his regretful sentence his car was heard at the crossing above, and -he had hurried away, calling back to them to take care of themselves, -and get well acquainted while he was gone. - -The two ladies had each returned a gay answer, and then had watched -their opportunity to glance furtively at each other, uncertain how to -begin the formidable task set them. - -Ruth Burnham had it in her heart to be almost sorry for the younger -woman, left thus without Erskine to lean upon, her only companion in -this new, strange home, a woman to whom the place had been home for a -generation. Did this give her a special advantage? Ought she to do -something to make the other woman feel at home? What should it be? What -ideas had they in common? There was Erskine, of course. It was not hard -for the mother to understand why this woman had been attracted to him. -How indeed could she help it? But what was it in her that had won him? - -"She is certainly very pretty," she said again, as she studied the -shapely figure leaning meditatively against one of the porch pillars; -she was looking down into the garden gay with autumn blooms. - -She was rather above medium height, with a fair skin and a wealth of -golden brown hair and eyes that were very blue. Ruth did not like her -eyes. That is, she would not have liked them if they had not belonged to -her daughter-in-law. In the solitude of her strangely solitary room, the -night before, she had fought out again one of her battles, and had -resolved anew that there should be nothing about this new daughter that -she would not like. - -Certainly she was pretty; so was her dress. She was all in white; not a -touch of color anywhere. Was that her taste, or Erskine's fancy? Could -his mother make it a stepping-stone to conversation? - -"You dressed for Erskine, this morning, I fancy," she said with a -winsome smile. "I presume you have already discovered how fond he is of -white?" - -"Oh, yes, he has held forth to me on that subject. Some of his ideas are -absurd, but they serve me very well just now. All white answers as a -substitute for mourning, under the circumstances. I hate black, and I am -glad that Erskine did not want me to wear it." - -This was the first reference that had been made to her bereavement. Mrs. -Burnham had not known how to touch it. Neither had her daughter's words -suggested what should be said. She murmured some commonplace about the -peculiar hardness of the situation. - -"Yes, indeed," said the younger woman. "It was simply dreadful! Aunt -Mary had been an invalid always,--ever since I knew her, at least,--but -nobody supposed that she would ever die. She was one of the nervous -kind, you know, full of aches and pains; a fresh list each morning, and -a detailed description of each. I did get so tired of it! If it hadn't -been for Erskine, I don't know what I should have done. Poor auntie was -very fond of him, and no wonder. He bore with all her stories and her -whims like a hero. I used to tell him that he had not lived with his -mother all his life, for nothing." - -"Her sudden death must have been a great shock to you." - -The new mother made a distinct effort to keep her voice from sounding -cold. Something in the words or the tones of the younger woman had -jarred. - -"Oh yes," she said, and sighed. "You cannot imagine what a perfectly -dreadful time it was! You know when people are always ill and always -fussing, you get used to it, and expect them to go on forever. If I had -had the least idea that she was going to die, I should have planned -differently, of course. What I should have done without Erskine, as -things turned out, it makes me shudder to think. What a queer old place -this is, isn't it? Erskine tells me that he has always lived here and -that the garden looks much as it did when he was a child. Is that so? It -seems so strange to me! I have moved about so much that I cannot imagine -how it would be to live always, anywhere. I don't believe I should like -it. The everlasting sameness, you know, would be such a bore. Don't you -find it so?" - -Ruth tried to smile. "I am very much attached to the place. I came to -it, as you have, a bride; and now I am afraid I should have difficulty -in making any other place seem like home." - -"Yes, that is because you are old. Poor auntie was forever sighing for -home. Nothing in all France or Italy was at all to be compared to the -delights of her room at home with four south windows and long curtains -that she had hemstitched herself." - -She laughed lightly and flitted away from the subject. - -"Is that an oak tree over there by the south gateway? Don't you think -oaks are ugly? They haven't the least bit of grace. I like elm trees -better than any other; every movement of their limbs is graceful. There -isn't one about the place, is there?" - -"Oh, yes, indeed, the other entrance from the east is lined with them -the entire length of the carriage drive. Was your aunt compelled to -remain abroad on account of the climate? It seems sad to think that she -had to be away from her home when she missed it and mourned for it." -Ruth could not keep her thoughts from reverting to the aunt who had been -so large a part of the younger woman's life for many years and had been -so recently removed from it. - -"Oh, I suppose she could have lived at home. In fact she was worse after -leaving it, or thought she was; I didn't see any great difference. It -was a lonesome, poky old house where she lived. Older than this, and -awfully dreary in winter. I couldn't have stayed there a winter, after I -once got away, to have saved her life. It was back in the country, you -know, two miles from town; think of it! I hate the country. Little -cities like this one are bad enough, but the country! Deliver me from -ever having to live in it again. I thought I should die when I was there -as a girl. - -"Is Erskine very much attached to this place, do you suppose, or has he -stayed here just for your sake? I should think it would be much better -for him to live where his business is. Think how much of his time is -consumed in going back and forth! and then, too, it is so disagreeable -for him to never be within call when one wants him." - -"As to the length of time it takes to go back and forth, that is no more -than is taken by those who live in the best residence portions of the -large city; we have rapid transit, and all the business men who can -afford to do so, keep their homes out here. Erskine has never known any -other home than this, and it would be strange indeed if he were not -attached to it. Of course it is associated with his father as no other -place can ever be." - -This time it was not possible for the elder lady to keep her voice from -sounding cold and constrained. The thought of Erskine in any other home -than this one that had been improved from time to time and made -beautiful, always with his interests in view, had not so much as -occurred to her. She recoiled from the mere suggestion, and also from -the easy and careless manner in which it was made. - -The young woman's manner was still careless. - -"Oh, of course; but young people do not feel such attachments much; it -isn't natural. We talk a great deal about sentimental youth, but I think -it is the old who are sentimental, don't you? Auntie was an illustration -of that. She had the greatest quantity of old duds that she carried -about with her wherever she went, just because they were keepsakes, -souvenirs, and all that sort of thing. They were of no real value, you -know, the most of them, and some were mere rubbish. I had the greatest -time when we were packing to go abroad; she wanted to lug ever so much -of that stuff with her! I just had to set my foot down that it couldn't -be done; and it was fortunate that I did, as things turned out. We had a -horrid time getting packed; if Erskine had had all that rubbish to see -to with the rest, I don't know what would have become of him. I don't -believe he has sentimental notions; he is too sensible. He ought to be -in the city; that is the place for a man to rise; and you want him to -rise, don't you? Aren't you ambitious for him? I am. I want him to stand -at the very head of his profession. I tell him that if he doesn't, it -will not be for lack of brains, but on account of a morbid conscience. -Don't you think he is inclined to be over-conscientious, sometimes? What -an odd, old-fashioned plant that is beyond the rose arbor; it looks like -a weed." - -She had a curious fashion of mixing the important and the trivial in a -single sentence. The mother, whose nerves quivered with her desire to -answer that remark about over-conscientiousness, restrained herself and -explained the plant that looked like a weed. - -"It is a very choice variety of begonia and has a lovely blossom in its -season. It is the first thing that Erskine planted quite by himself. He -was a tiny boy then, with yellow curls." - -The mother's voice trembled. A vision of her boy in his childish beauty, -in the long-ago days when he was all her own, came back to her, bringing -with it a strange new pang. - -The wife laughed carelessly. - -"And you have kept it all these years, ugly as it is, on that account? I -told you it was old people who were sentimental." - -Mrs. Burnham turned abruptly away, murmuring something about household -duties. She went to the kitchen and gave the cook some directions that -she did not need; then went swiftly to her room and closed and locked -her door. Then she passed through to her sitting room, the door of which -was opposite her son's, and stood always open, inviting his entrance, -and closed and locked it. She had a feeling that she must be alone. More -alone than closed and locked doors would make her. She must shut out -something that had come in unawares and taken hold of her life. But -could she shut it out, or get away from it? - -"I must pray," she said aloud, clasping both hands over her throbbing -forehead. "I must pray a great deal. I am not alone; God is with me; and -nothing dreadful has happened, or is about to happen. There is nothing -and there must be nothing but peace and joy in our home. I must be quiet -and sensible and not sentimental. Oh, I must not be sentimental at all!" - -She laughed a little over that word--the kind of laugh that does not -help one; but it was followed immediately by tears, and they relieved a -little of the strain. - -Then she went to her knees; and when she arose, was quiet and ready for -life. The thought came to her that it was well that she was acquainted -with God and did not have to seek him at this time as one unknown. He -had kept his everlasting arms underneath her through trying years, -certainly she could trust him now. - -She went out at once in search of her daughter, intending to propose a -drive; but Ellen met her in the hall with a message. - -"I was to tell you, ma'am, that young Mrs. Burnham has gone to lie down -and doesn't want to be disturbed. She doesn't want to be awakened even -for luncheon; she says she has been on a steady strain for weeks, and -has a lot of sleeping to make up; she shouldn't wonder if she slept all -day." - -"Very well, Ellen, we will keep the house quiet and let her rest as long -as she will." - -The mother's voice was quietness itself, yet, despite that phrase "young -Mrs. Burnham," which, some way, jarred, her heart was filled with -compunction. Had the poor young wife, a stranger in a strange home, shut -herself up to sleep, or to cry? She had been through nerve-straining -experiences so recently; death and marriage coming into one short week; -and now, a new home, and Erskine away for the day, and no one within -sight or sound whom she had ever seen before. Would it be any wonder if -the tears wanted to come? Could not her new mother have helped her -through this first strange day? Why had she not put tender arms about -her and kissed her, and called her "daughter," and said how glad she was -to have a daughter? That was what she had meant to do. This morning when -she came from her night vigil, she had almost the words on her lips that -she meant to say as soon as they two were alone. She had meant the words -in their fulness; so at least she believed. They had come to her in -answer to her cry for help. What had kept her from saying them? - -Even while she asked herself the question, a faint weary smile hovered -about her lips. - -Had she done so, would she have been thought "sentimental?" - - - - - CHAPTER XI - - "PLANS FOR A PURPOSE" - - -THE Burnhams were still seated at their dinner table, although Mrs. -Erskine Burnham had just remarked that the evening was too lovely to -spend in eating. - -"Let us take a walk on the porch in the moonlight the minute we are -through dinner," she said to her husband. Apparently she paid no heed to -the slight dry cough which came so frequently from Erskine that his -mother's face took on a shade of anxiety. Erskine's coughs had been his -mother's chief anxiety concerning him through the years; he had never -been able to tamper with them; but his wife laughed at her fears and -frankly told her that Erskine was too old now to be coddled. - -To all outward appearances the Burnham dining room was exhibiting a -perfect home scene. The day had been balmy, with a hint of summer in the -air, and although the evening was cool enough for a bright fire in the -grate, the mantle above it had been banked with violets, whose sweet -spring breath pervaded the air. - -To Erskine Burnham who had been all day in the rush and roar of the -great city, the lovely room with its flower-laden air, and its daintily -appointed dinner table with the two ladies seated thereat in careful -toilets, formed a picture of complete and restful home life. He glanced -from wife to mother with eyes of approval and spoke joyously. - -"I don't suppose you two can fully appreciate what it is to me to get -home to you after a stuffy, snarly day in town. I sit in the car -sometimes with closed eyes after a day of turmoil, to picture how it -will all look. But the reality always exceeds my imagination." - -His wife laughed gayly. - -"That is because you come home hungry," she said. "You want your dinner -and you like the odor of it and make believe that it is sentiment and -violets. In reality it is roast beef and jelly that charm you." - -He echoed her laugh. He thought her gay spirits were charming. "The -roast beef helps, undoubtedly," he said. "Though it was violets I -noticed first, to-night. Aren't they lovely? Did you arrange them, -Irene? Hasn't it been a perfect day? Too pleasant for staying in doors -patiently. I hope you have both been out a great deal? Oh, it is Friday, -isn't it? Then you have, mamma, of course. What have you been about, -Irene?" - -"I went to the lake this morning with the Bensons; and we spent an hour -or more with the Langhams; they are here for a month. It is lovely out -there, Erskine, and there are some charming cottages for rent. Two -simply ideal ones, either of which would suit us. Darling little -bird's-nests of cottages, not a great staring room in one of them. I -wish we could go there for the summer." - -Erskine laughed indulgently, but at the same time shook his head. - -"Too far away, dear. I couldn't get out there at night until seven, or -later. Besides, you wouldn't find it so pleasant as you fancy. Life in -one of those bird's-nest cottages is ideal only on paper. Nothing could -be pleasanter, I am sure, than our own home; and it is a delightful -drive to the lake whenever we want to go there. So the Langhams are -down." - -"Oh, yes, and came to lunch with me. You should see Harry! he has shaved -his mustache, and it changes his face so that I hardly knew him." - -"Oh, Harry is here, is he? His face could bear changing. What did you -think of him, mamma? He is the young man of whom I wrote you, who went -over on the same steamer that I did, last spring." - -Before Mrs. Burnham could reply, his wife's voice chimed in. "She didn't -meet him. I went off with a rush, this morning. I heard through the mail -that the Langhams were down, and I was in such a hurry to see Nettie -that I thought of nothing else. I ran away, don't you think! Never said -where I was going, or anything; and then came back to luncheon so late -that I supposed of course mother had lunched long before, and was lying -down, so I wouldn't have her disturbed. And don't you think she had -waited, and so lost her luncheon altogether." - -Erskine laughed genially and waited to hear his mother say that of -course that was of no consequence; but she did not speak. The cheerful -voice of his wife went on:-- - -"Nettie Langham has the sweetest little home, Erskine. If you could see -it, you would never say again that cottages were only nice on paper. I'm -sure I long to prove to you how perfectly charming one could be. And we -have such a host of pretty things that would fit into it. Will Langham -says he saves ten minutes night and morning by being at that end of the -town instead of this." - -Erskine chose to ignore the cottage. - -"You had an afternoon of calls, had you not? I met the Emersons and the -Stuarts down town and both spoke of having been here." - -"Oh, yes, they were here, with the Needham girls; and Mrs. Easton and -her daughter Faye were here. We met them in New York, you know. And oh, -don't you think, Mrs. Janeway's niece that we used to hear so much about -called this afternoon with a letter of introduction from Mrs. Janeway. -She is lovely, Erskine. I was prepared to dislike her because we heard -such perfection of her; but really she is charming. And she is going to -be at one of the lake cottages for several weeks; that is another reason -for our being out there, you see." - -She seemed bent on holding his attention, but Erskine turned to his -mother with a question. - -"Mamma, don't you think Mrs. Stuart is looking ill? I was shocked at the -change in her. Isn't it marked, or is it because I haven't seen her -lately?" - -"I did not see her to-day, my son. I did not even know she had been -here." - -Mrs. Erskine Burnham pretended to frown at her husband. - -"What a stupid boy you can be when you choose!" she said. "How many -times must I tell you that I thought mother was resting, this afternoon, -and did not disturb her with callers? I'm sure the Stuarts are not such -infrequent guests that one must make a special effort to meet them. I'll -tell you some other people who were here. The Hemingways, don't you -think! The last time we saw them was just as we were leaving Paris. They -came back only last month, and Mrs. Hemingway says she is already -homesick for Paris. That is the worst of living abroad for a time; one -is never afterward quite satisfied with this country." - -"Mamma," said Erskine. "Do I understand that you have not been out, -to-day, Friday, though it is? Aren't you feeling well?" - -There was tender solicitude in his tones, but his mother's voice was -cold. - -"Quite well, Erskine. May I give you some coffee?" This he declined, and -almost immediately his wife made a movement to leave the table. She -linked her arm at once in her husband's and drew him toward the door. - -"Come out on the porch, Erskine, do; this room is stuffy to-night. One -can't breathe in a house with a fire, on such charming days as these. -Why, of course, it's prudent. The air is as mild as it is in midsummer. -Don't go to housing yourself up because you have a tiny little cold; it -is the best way in the world to make it cling. Dear me! don't I know all -about that? Poor auntie was forever hunting about for draughts, and -closing doors and windows and putting shawls on herself and everybody -else. If I had to stay in the house with another invalid of that kind, I -should die." - -They were on the porch by this time; she had overcome Erskine's -half-reluctance and had closed the door behind them. But the window was -open and the mother could distinctly hear the slight dry cough, more -frequent now that they were in the open air. She stood irresolute for a -moment, then turned and went swiftly up to her own rooms and closed and -locked her door. Then she went hurriedly to the front windows and drew -the curtains close; she had a feeling that she must shut out the outside -world very carefully. But she had no tears to shed; on the contrary her -eyes were very dry and bright and seemed almost to burn in their -sockets, and two red spots glowed on her cheeks. - -It was a little more than six months since that October evening when -Erskine Burnham had brought home his bride, and they had been months of -revelation to his mother. - -During that time she had tried--did any woman ever try harder?--to be, -in the true sense of the word, a mother to her daughter-in-law. Her -son's appeal during their first moments of privacy had touched her -deeply. He had ignored any necessity for a further explanation of his -sudden marriage, accepting it as a matter of course that his mother -would fully appreciate the simple statement that, however hard it was -for all three, it seemed to be the only right solution of their -difficulties; and went straight to his point. - -"I want you to be a revelation to Irene, mommie. She knows very little -about mother-love, having had chiefly to imagine it, with, I fancy, -rather poor models on which to build her imaginings. She is singularly -alone in the world, and she doesn't make close friends easily. It is a -joy to me to think how a part of her nature that has heretofore been -starved and dwarfed will blossom out under your love and care." - -Then his mother had kissed him, a long, clinging, self-surrendering -kiss, while she vowed to her secret soul never to disappoint his hopes. -What had she not done and left undone and endured during those six -months in order to try to keep that vow! What an impossible vow it was! -How utterly Erskine had misunderstood his wife in supposing that she -wanted to be loved by his mother! that she wanted anything whatever of -his mother except to efface her. - -By slow degrees Mrs. Burnham was reaching the conclusion that such was -the policy of her daughter-in-law. It had come to her as a surprise. -Whatever else in her checkered life Ruth Erskine Burnham had been called -upon to bear, she had been accustomed to being recognized always as an -important force. Mrs. Erskine Burnham had not planned in that way. She -did not argue, she never openly combated any thing; she simply carried -out her own intentions without the slightest regard to the plans or the -convenience of others; or at least of one other. - -From the first of her coming into this hitherto ideal home she had -assumed that her mother-in-law was a feeble old woman on whom the claims -of society were irksome, and the ordering of her home and servants a -bore. At first, Ruth, with her utterly different experience from which -to judge, did not understand the situation. When her new daughter -assured her that it was too windy or too damp or too chilly or too warm -for her to expose herself, she laughed amusedly and explained that she -was in excellent health and was accustomed to going out in all weather. -When callers came and went without her being notified, she attributed it -at first to forgetfulness, on the part of a bride, or to her ignorance -of the customs of the neighborhood; then to her over-solicitude for an -older woman's comfort, then to carelessness, pure and simple, and -finally, by closely contested steps, to the conviction that it was a -deeply laid, steadily carried-out plan, for a purpose. This day, at the -close of which she had locked herself into her room and vainly tried to -shut out the sounds of laughter on the porch below, had given her -abundant proof of the truth of this conviction. - -It was Friday, the day which, ever since Erskine was graduated and they -were permanently settled in their home, she had devoted to making a -round of calls upon people who had been long ill, or who for any special -reason needed special thought. She took one or another of them for a -drive, she did errands for certain others, she carried flowers and fruit -and reading matter to such as could enjoy them; in short she gave -herself and her carriage and horses in any way that could best meet the -interests of those set apart. So much a feature of their life had this -morning programme become that Erskine was in the habit of referring to -it much as he did to Sunday. - -"We must not plan for guests at luncheon on Fridays, Irene; mamma is -much too tired for social functions after her strenuous mornings." - -"We could not have the carriage for that day, dear; it is Friday, you -remember." - -Numberless times since the advent of the new member of the family, had -such reference to the special custom been made; the mother's eyes being -now opened, she recalled instance after instance in which there had been -in progress some pet scheme for Friday, that would interfere with her -disposal of it. More than once she had tried to enter a protest; had -urged that she could wait until another day, or she could order a -carriage from the livery for that time; but Erskine's negative had been -prompt and emphatic. - -"No, indeed, mamma; we don't want you to do anything of the kind. We are -interested in the Friday programme, too, remember. I consider it almost -in the light of a trust. Why, the very horses would be hurt, Irene, if -they were not allowed to go their Friday rounds, carrying roses, and -jellies, and balm. Nothing not absolutely necessary, mommie, must be -permitted to interfere with that." - -Yet, on that Friday morning when Mrs. Burnham, having studied the -barometer and the sky, had sent word to an especially delicate invalid -that she believed she could safely take a drive, and had come down at -the appointed hour dressed for driving, with a couch pillow in hand and -an extra wrap over her arm, Ellen had met her at the foot of the stairs -with a flushed face and eyes that had dropped their glance to the floor -for very shame, as she said: "The carriage has gone, ma'am; I was coming -to ask you if I should 'phone for another, right away." - -"Gone!" echoed her mistress, standing still on the third step, and -staring at the girl. "What do you mean, Ellen? Gone where?" - -"To the station, ma'am. Jonas said Mrs. Erskine had ordered him to take -her there to meet a friend." - -"Oh," said Mrs. Burnham, reaching for her watch. "Some guest just heard -from who must be met, I presume. Then they will be back very soon, of -course." - -Again the maid's indignant eyes drooped as though unwilling to see her -mistress's discomfiture as she hurried her story. - -"I guess not, ma'am. She ordered luncheon to be late; not earlier than -two or half past, and said there would be company; two anyway, perhaps -more. Will I 'phone for a carriage, ma'am?" - - - - - CHAPTER XII - - ACCIDENT OR DESIGN? - - -MRS. BURNHAM had stood for a full minute irresolute; then she had spoken -in her usual tone, explaining to Ellen that the friend she had intended -to take out would not be able to go in a livery carriage. She would -herself make plain to her why the drive must be deferred until another -time. The mistake had occurred by her neglecting to explain to her -daughter the morning's plans. Then she had turned and slowly retraced -her steps. She had seen and been humiliated by the flush on Ellen's face -and the flash in her eyes. It was humiliating to think that her maid was -indignant over the way she was being treated by her daughter. It is -probably well that she did not hear the maid's exclamation:-- - -"The horrid cat! If I only dared tell Mr. Erskine all about it!" - -Ruth Burnham had gone downstairs again after a time. She had changed her -street dress first, and made a careful at-home toilet. She had given -certain additional directions to the cook, with a view to doing honor to -their unexpected guests. She had made a special effort to have Ellen -understand that all was quite as it should be, and had sternly assured -herself that such was the case. If she could not sympathize with the -sudden movements of young people on hearing of the coming of friends, -she deserved to be set aside as too old to be endurable. It was absurd -in her to be so wedded to an old custom! just as though any other day in -the week would not do as well as Friday. Then she had gone to the living -room which was Erskine's favorite of the entire house. - -"It is such a home-y room, mamma," he used to say, away back in his -early boyhood. When it had been refurnished, or at least renewed, with a -view to Erskine's home-coming, his mother had taken pains to preserve -the sense of homeiness, and had seen to it that his pet luxuries, sofa -pillows, were in lavish evidence. - -It was a charming room. Very long and many windowed, with wide, low -window-seats, and tempting cosy-corners, piled high with cushions so -carefully chosen, as to size and harmony of color, that they were in -themselves studies in art. There was a smaller room opening from this -and nearer the front entrance, which was used as a reception room, and -was furnished more after the fashion of the conventional parlor; but -guests who, as Erskine phrased it, really "belonged," were always -entertained in the living room. - -In the doorway of this room the mistress of the house had stopped short -and looked about her in astonishment. It wore an unfamiliar air. The -easy-chairs, each one of which she had made a study, until it seemed to -have been created for the particular niche in which it was placed, had -every one changed places and to the eyes of the mistress of the house -looked awkward and uncomfortable. But that was foolish, she assured -herself quickly. Chairs, of course, belonged wherever their friends -chose to place them. There were other changes. The window-seats had been -shorn of some of their largest and prettiest cushions, and a little onyx -table that had occupied a quiet corner was gone. It had held a choice -picture of Erskine's father, set in a dainty frame, and near it had -stood a tiny vase which was daily filled with fresh blossoms. Picture -and vase and flowers had disappeared. - -"Ellen," Mrs. Burnham had said, catching sight of the girl in the next -room, "what has happened here? Has there been an accident?" - -"No, m'm," said Ellen, appearing in the opposite doorway, duster in -hand. - -"It wasn't any accident, ma'am, it was orders. She didn't want such a -lot of pillows here, she said. It looked for all the world like a show -room, or as if it had been got ready for a church fair. Those was her -very words." - -"Never mind the pillows, Ellen." Mrs. Burnham had spoken hastily, and -was regretting that she had spoken at all. "It is the table, and -especially the picture about which I am inquiring. I hope the picture is -safe? It is the best one we have." - -"It's all safe, ma'am; I looked out for that; but that was orders, too. -She said the room was too full, and looked cluttery; and she said that -only country folks kept family pictures in their parlors. And she had me -take the table and the picture and the vase up into the back attic. She -said the vase was a nuisance; it was always tipping over and she didn't -want it around in the way. Of course I had to take them; you told me to -obey orders." - -Ellen's indignation was getting the better of her usual discreetness. It -was her tone and manner that recalled the elder woman to her senses. She -spoke with decision and dignity. - -"Certainly, Ellen. Why should there be occasion for mentioning that? Of -course Mrs. Erskine Burnham's orders are to be obeyed equally with my -own; or, if they conflict at any time with my own, give hers the -preference. Especially should the parlors and sitting rooms be arranged -just as she wishes. Young people care more about such little matters -than we older ones do." - -She knew that her voice had been steady, and she took care to make her -movements quiet and her manner natural and at ease. Not for the world -would she have had Ellen know of the turmoil going on inside. It was the -picture that hurt her; or rather that emphasized the hurt. Erskine's -favorite picture of his father; the one that as a child he had daily -kissed good morning; the one that now after all these years he always -stood beside in silence for a moment, after greeting her. And she could -not recall that he had ever forgotten to select from the flowers he -brought home, an offering for the tiny vase. - -How was it possible for his wife to have spent six months in his home -without noting all this? And noting it, how could she possibly have -interfered with that cherished corner? - -The morning had been a distinct advance on former experiences. The new -daughter had evidently misunderstood the spirit in which small -interferences and small slights had heretofore been accepted, and -determined on aggressive effort. Long before this, and as often as she -chose, she had made what changes pleased her in the more pretentious -parlor, and Mrs. Burnham had openly approved some of them and been -pleasantly silent over others. She had also given explicit directions to -the would-be rebel, Ellen, that the "new lady's" slightest hint was to -be obeyed. - -There had been no pettiness in her thoughts about the changes. She was -earnestly anxious to have her son's wife feel so entirely at home that -she would not need to hesitate about carrying out her own tastes. But -was it not to be supposed that a wife would consult her husband's tastes -as well as her own? And his father's picture that he had cherished ever -since he was a child! She had herself told Irene one morning, standing -before that very picture, how Erskine had singled it out from all the -others and said decidedly: "That one is papa." And his wife could banish -it to the attic! - -Ruth Erskine Burnham was used to mental struggles. There had been times -in her life when her strong-willed feelings had got the upper hand and -swayed her for days together; but it is doubtful if a more violent storm -of feeling had ever swept about her than surged that morning. For a -while the pent-up emotions of many weeks were allowed their way. But -only for a little while. The Christian of many years' experience had -herself too well in training for long submission to the enemy's control. -By the time that delayed luncheon hour drew near she believed that she -was her quiet self again; ready to receive and assist in entertaining -her daughter's guests whoever they might be. As was her habit when under -the power of strong feeling that must be held in check she took refuge -with her absent friends, and wrote a long letter to Marian Dennis, -ignoring the immediate present utterly and revelling in certain happy -experiences of their past. When her unusually lengthy epistle was -finished, she was startled at the lateness of the hour, and began to -wonder how certain details of the dinner could be managed if luncheon -were much longer delayed. Just then Ellen knocked at her door. - -"They are 'most through luncheon, ma'am," was her message. "I heard you -moving around and I thought I'd venture to tell you." - -"Why, Ellen, how is this? I did not hear any call to luncheon." - -"You wasn't called, ma'am. She said you was likely asleep, and she -wouldn't let me come up and see. She thinks you don't do anything but -sleep when you are upstairs!" - -This last was muttered, and not supposed to be heard by her mistress. -Ellen had evidently reached the limit of her endurance. Since the -mistress said not a word, she ventured a further statement. "There's -four of them, ma'am, besides Mrs. Burnham; and it's long after three, -and they're on the last course. I thought you would be wanting something -to eat by this time." - -Outwardly, Ruth was herself again. - -"Thank you, Ellen," she said. "Since I am so late, I think I will not go -down until the guests have left the dining room. I am not in the least -hungry; I think on the whole I should prefer to wait until dinner is -served." - -Her tone was gentleness itself; but there was in it that quality which -made Ellen understand that she was dismissed. - -Then Mrs. Burnham went back to her room and sat down near the open -window. The sweet spring air came to her, laden with the breath of the -flowers she loved, but their odor almost sickened her. She had thought -that her battle was fought and victory declared, and behold it was only -a lull! What was she to do? What ought she to do? Should she go down to -the guests, apologize for tardiness, and act as though nothing had -occurred to disturb her? That, of course, would be the sensible way; -but,--could she do it well, with the closely observing and indignant -Ellen to confront? It scarcely seemed possible; and she blushed for -shame over the thought that she was afraid to meet the anxious eyes of -her maid. - -Even while she waited and considered, a carriage swung around the corner -and stopped before her door. Three ladies alighted, evidently with the -intent of paying an afternoon visit. Among them was Mrs. Stuart, her -most intimate acquaintance. Now indeed she would have to go down; but -she would wait for a summons, that would make it appear more natural. So -she waited; but no summons came. The ladies, all of them her friends, -made their call and departed. And others came--a constant succession of -callers; the new spring day had tempted everybody out. Most of the -people Mrs. Burnham knew by sight; some of them were comparative -strangers, paying their first calls. What was being given as the reason -why she was not there to meet them? The words of Ellen recurred to her, -words that she had considered it wisdom not to seem to hear:-- - -"She thinks you don't do anything but sleep when you are upstairs." The -matron's lip curled a little. She was not given to sleeping by daylight; -a fifteen minutes' nap after luncheon was always sufficient, and even -that was frequently omitted. - -It was a strange afternoon, the strangest that she had ever passed. She -kept her seat at the window, almost within view, if the guests had -raised their eyes, and saw friends who rarely got out to make calls, and -whom she had always made special efforts to entertain. What must they -think of her, at home, and well, and not there to meet them? And why was -she not there? What strange freak or whim was this? Could her -daughter-in-law hope to make a prisoner of her in her own house? Why did -she sit there in that inane way as though she were in very deed a -prisoner? Why not go down, as a matter of course, and take her proper -place as usual? But the longer she delayed and watched those groups of -callers come and go, the more impossible it seemed to do this. With each -fresh arrival she felt sure that she would be summoned, and waited -nervously for Ellen's knock. But no Ellen came. - -The day waned and the hour for Erskine and dinner drew near; and still -Mrs. Burnham sat like one dazed at that open window. An entire afternoon -lost. When, before, had she spent a day in such fashion? - -She leaned forward, presently, and watched Erskine's car stop at the -corner, and watched his springing step as he came with glad haste to his -home, and received his bow and smile as he looked up at her window. Now -indeed she must go down; and go before he could come in search of her, -and question her with keen gaze and searching words. Her eyes told no -tales, they were dry, and there were bright spots glowing on her cheeks. -She had not known what she should say, just how she should manage his -solicitous inquiries. She would make no plans, she told herself; things -must just take their course. Matters had so shaped themselves that any -planning of hers was useless. - -Then she had gone down to that cheerful dining room, and listened to the -chatter of her daughter-in-law, and replied to her son as best she -could. Now she was back in her room, and Erskine and his wife were out -on the porch in the moonlight, and that slight, frequent cough was -coming up to her. Presently he would come, and she dreaded it. For -almost the first time in her life she dreaded to meet her son. He would -be insistent, and she was not good at dissembling. And yet, he must not -know, he must never know how she had been treated that day. If only he -would stay away and give her a chance to think, to pray, to grow calm. -Should she lock her door? - -Lock out her son? She could not do that! but she could not talk with him -to-night; she would turn off her light and ask him not to light up again -and not to stay, because she was tired. That at least would be true: she -was tired. For the first time in her life she was tired of life! She -must get into a different spirit from this. After Erskine had kissed her -good-night she would have it out with her heart, or her will. - -Hark! he was coming! they were coming upstairs together, and Irene was -chattering. Out went the lights in the mother's room. She heard the wife -pass on to her own room, she heard her son, stepping lightly, stopping a -moment before her door, then he too passed on, to his own room, and -closed his door. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - - WAS IRENE RIGHT? - - -IF she could have heard some of the talk that had taken place on the -porch in the moonlight, Mrs. Burnham would have better understood her -son's consideration. They had taken but very few turns on the porch when -Erskine said:-- - -"Mamma has gone upstairs. I think I must run up and see her a few -minutes, Irene. She does not seem to feel quite well to-night; although -in some respects I think I never saw her looking better; her eyes were -very bright, did you notice? Perhaps she is feverish. Did she speak of -having cold?" - -"Not at all; I have no idea that she doesn't feel quite well." - -"There was something peculiar about her. Didn't she really go out at all -to-day? That is certainly unusual; you have seen how particular she is -to keep her Friday programme. Irene, I am really afraid that she is -ill." - -"She isn't ill at all, you fussy boy; I think you are absurd about your -mother. You fuss over her as though she were a spoiled child. That is -just the word for it." - -"Very well," he said good-humouredly. "I must go and 'fuss over' her, -enough to know why she overturned her usual programme," and he moved -toward the door. - -His wife held to his arm and tried to arrest his steps. - -"Don't go in, Erskine; it is stuffy inside, and I haven't seen you since -morning. As for that programme which worries you so much, if you were -not dreadfully stupid to-night you would understand that it is I who -overturned it. I ran away with the carriage, I told you--almost as soon -as you went yourself. I was so charmed with the idea of seeing the -Langhams again that I forgot everything else." - -Her husband turned then to look at her, his face expressing surprise. - -"Did you take our carriage, dear? I supposed you ordered one from the -livery." - -His wife pretended to pout. - -"You are cross to-night, Erskine. I don't see why I should. I thought -'Our' meant mine as much as hers. Why shouldn't she order one if she -wanted it?" - -He laughed, as though he was expected to understand that she was talking -nonsense, but he spoke with an undertone of decision. - -"Oh if it comes to that, the carriage as well as the horses are -undoubtedly my mother's, but she and I have never drawn any hard and -fast lines about 'mine' and 'thine'; I have always found her too willing -to give up her convenience for mine. For that reason, perhaps, I have -been careful to plan systematically for her, and to anticipate and -overrule her personal sacrifices as much as possible, and I know that -you will delight to join me in it. I am afraid that she was much -inconvenienced to-day; still, that cannot be why she did not see any of -her friends. What reason did she give, dear, for not coming down?" - -Irene pouted in earnest this time. - -"Really, Erskine, you are strangely obtuse! I have explained at least -three times that mother spent the afternoon in her room, and that I gave -orders that she should not be disturbed. I thought I should be commended -for it instead of blamed." - -"I haven't had a thought of blaming you, Irene, but I am a trifle -anxious about my mother, and what you say only increases the anxiety. -She has never been given to sleeping much in the daytime." - -"Oh what nonsense! as though you knew what she did all day, while you -are in town! Of course she sleeps; old people always do." - -"My mother isn't old, Irene." - -[Illustration: "MY MOTHER ISN'T OLD, IRENE."--_Page 167._] - -"Why not, I wonder? you ridiculous boy! When should people begin to be -called old, pray, if not at fifty? And she is more than that. She is -within a few years of Auntie's age, and you thought she was an old -woman, and were always preaching to me about how patient I must be with -her on that account." - -Her husband gave her a troubled, half-startled look. His mother nearly -as old as the invalid aunt who had seemed to him old enough to be his -grandmother! - -"Are you sure?" he asked helplessly. - -His wife laughed satirically. - -"Sure of what, my beloved dunce? That your mother is fifty-three? Of -course I am. It was only a few days ago that she showed me her -gold-lined silver cup, that has the imprint of her first teeth and is -dated for her first birthday." - -Then her face sobered. - -"And I'll tell you another way in which I know it, Erskine. She is -growing nervous and over-sensitive, as old people always do. I can see a -great difference in her, even in the short time that I have been here. -It is nothing to worry about, of course; simply something to be expected -as among the infirmities of age. You ought to have married me six or -eight years before you did; it would have been easier for her. She -simply cannot get used to your having a wife. 'My son' has 'lived and -breathed and had his being' so many years for her sake alone, that to -share him with another is a bitter experience. She doesn't love me one -bit, Erskine, and it is not my fault. If I were an angel from heaven, it -wouldn't make any difference, provided I had presumed to marry you. It -makes it hard for both of us; and for that very reason it would be much -better if you and I were in a little house of our own. She would get -used to it much easier if she did not have me continually before her -eyes." - -If she could have seen distinctly the look of pain on her husband's -face, as she got off these sentences with composed voice, it might have -moved her to pity for him. When he spoke, his voice was almost sharp. "I -am sure you are mistaken, Irene; utterly mistaken. My mother wanted me -to marry; she has wanted it for years; at times she was actually -troubled because I did not, and spoke of it very seriously." - -Irene laughed lightly as she gave his arm some half-reproving, -half-caressing pats. - -"Blind as a bat, you are!" she said. "Despite all your supposed wisdom. -On general principles your mother wanted you to marry, of course, -because that is the proper thing for a man to do. But marriage in the -abstract and marriage in the concrete are two very different matters. -There! haven't I put that well? Those are lawyers' terms, aren't they? -They sound learned, anyway." - -He smiled in an absent-minded way at her folly. His thoughts were -elsewhere. Something in the turn of her sentence had carried him -suddenly back to a moon-lighted evening in which he had walked and -talked with Alice Warder, and he could seem to hear her voice again as -she said:-- - -"I know your mother loves me, Erskine, almost as she would a daughter; -and I also know that she loves me a great deal better because her son is -like a brother to me instead of being--something else." He remembered -how he had puzzled over it all, and studied his mother's face, and half -decided that Alice was right. Was Irene right, also? Was his mother -grieved that he had married at all? Was it possible that she could have -stooped to so small a feeling as jealousy! - -His wife laid her head caressingly against his arm and said softly:-- - -"Don't worry about it, Erskine. We can't either of us help it now; and -we must just make the best of it and do as well as we can." - -For the first time in his life, as those low tremulously spoken words -sounded in his ears, a feeling very like resentment toward his mother -swelled in Erskine Burnham's heart, and a torrent of tenderness rushed -over him toward the wife who had no one in all the world but himself. -This was what she had often told him. - -All things considered it is perhaps not strange that he did not visit -his mother's room that evening. - -It is true that when they went upstairs he paused before her door and -listened, and told himself that she was asleep and he would not disturb -her. But there had been nights before, many of them, in which he had -waited at her door and listened, and murmured: "Mommie," and received a -prompt invitation to enter. On this evening, though the hour was not -late, he was not insistent. He made no attempt to knock or to speak. It -was his concession to that new thought about her being an old woman. Or -was it a slight concession, unawares, to that new feeling of resentment? - -His mother, knowing nothing of what had been talked over in the -moonlight, held her breath and waited. Of course Erskine would come to -say good night. She forgot that she had wished he would not come! When -his footsteps moved toward his own room, she waited a minute, then -stepped into the hall. - -"Erskine!" she said; but she said it very softly and he did not hear -her. She could hear his voice. He was talking with his wife. The mother -slipped softly back to her own room and locked her door. It was not -late, and she and her son were only across a hall from each other; yet, -for the first time in her life under like conditions, if she slept at -all it must be without his good-night kiss. There is no true mother but -will appreciate the situation. There are, it is true, mothers who are -not accustomed to good-night kisses from their grown sons, and so would -not miss them, but they are accustomed to a certain atmosphere, and they -can understand what it would be like to be suddenly removed from it. - -Mrs. Burnham went to her bed as usual, after a while, like the sensible -woman that she was. That she did not go to sleep was not her fault, for -she made earnest effort to do so. She told herself repeatedly and with a -calmness which was itself unnatural, that nothing terrible had happened, -and that she was above making herself miserable over trifles. Was her -daughter-in-law's indifference to her only a trifle? She made a distinct -pause over that word "indifference" and selected it with care; of course -it was nothing more; and--yes, it was a trifle. How could one who knew -her so little and had so little in common with her life be expected to -be other than indifferent? Erskine had expected more, very much more, -but Erskine was--was different from other people. - -Then, suddenly, all her heart went out in a great swell of tenderness -for Erskine. She did not stop to reason about it, she did not wait to -ask herself why Erskine, who had everything, should be the subject of -her shielding care; she simply took him metaphorically once more into -her mother-arms and vowed to shield him from even a hint of solicitude -on her account. She would rise above it all; she would treat Irene -exactly as though she were at all times the loving and considerate -daughter that Erskine believed she was; she would let him be blind to -her faults, she would even help him to increased blindness. That was her -work for him now; she would accept it and be diligent in it. The thought -helped to quiet her, but it did not bring her sleep. She was broad -staring awake. She told herself that sleep seemed an impossibility; she -wondered curiously how she had ever slept. - -A low murmur of talk came to her from the room across the hall. They -were not sleeping, either. Could she have heard some of the talk in that -room across the hall it would have made things plainer to her than they -were. - -"There is one thing, dear," Erskine Burnham was saying to his wife, -"which we must look upon as settled. We can have no home apart from my -mother's. You can plan for summer cottages if you will, and where you -will, for a stay of a few weeks, but the real home must always be here. -I have taken care of my mother, practically all my life; and now if she -is, as you say, growing old, it is not the time to make any change." - -"Not even though the change would be a benefit to her?" His wife -intended her words to represent a playful sarcasm, but Erskine's face -had clouded and he had answered quickly: - -"No; not even under such an extraordinary supposition as that. Young as -I was when my father died, he said that to me about my mother which has -always made her seem to me as a trust; and I must be true to my trust in -any case." - -After a moment's constrained silence between them his face had cleared -and he had laughed cheerfully. - -"But we need not be so solemn over it, Irene. I know my mother, and I -have no fears as to her wishes. Nothing that anybody could say would -make me believe that she could be happier away from me than with me. I -would almost not believe it if she said so herself. Quite, indeed. I -should feel that she had over-persuaded herself in some spirit of -sacrifice. There is material in my mother for martyrdom, Irene. It shall -be your and my study to prevent her from indulging in it." - -His wife made no attempt to reply. She was in some respects a wise woman -and she understood that there was a time when silence was golden. When -she spoke again, it was to ask if he did not think curtains lined with -rose color would be an improvement on those now separating their -dressing room from the main apartment. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - - THE GENERAL MANAGER - - -"MOTHER, don't you think that you are being rather hard on Irene to -undertake to hold her to restrictions to which she has never been -accustomed, and which to her seem narrow and unreasonable?" - -Erskine Burnham had followed his mother to her room evidently with a -view to speaking to her alone, his wife having gone on into her own room -and closed the door. Even though she had not felt it in the tone of his -voice, Mrs. Burnham would have known by her son's opening word that he -was annoyed. - -He rarely used the word "mother" when addressing her directly. As a rule -the habits of his childhood prevailed, and "mamma" was the name in -frequent use; or, oftener still perhaps, when they were quite alone, his -special pet name for her, "mommie," came naturally to his lips. But of -late she had heard, oftener than ever before, what was to him a colder -term "Mother," and had learned to know what it meant. - -She hesitated a moment before replying, and her hesitation seemed to -irritate her son. He spoke quickly, with a note in his voice which she -had never found in it before. - -"I must confess, mother, that I am surprised and not a little -disappointed at the course you are taking. When I brought Irene here, it -was not only in the hope but the assured belief that I was bringing her -to what she had never really had before--a mother,--and that you would -become to her in time, what you have always been to me. I never for a -moment dreamed of your standing coldly at one side, not only indifferent -to her innocent devices for pleasure, but actually blocking her way! If -I could have imagined such a condition of things, I would have better -understood her feeling from the very first that we ought to go into a -house of our own, where she would not feel herself an interloper." - -Mrs. Burnham was ready then with her reply. - -"Erskine, I do not think Irene could have understood me. I made no -attempt to hold her to any restrictions. She asked a direct question -about my own views, which, of course, I answered. But I ought not to -have to explain to my son that I do not try to force my opinions upon -any one." - -He made a movement of impatience. - -"That kind of thing is not necessary, mother, between us; but you know -very well that there are ways of expressing one's opinions that -effectually trammel others of the same household. - -"The simple truth is that Irene has played cards, for amusement, in her -own and her friends' parlors, ever since she was old enough to play -games of any kind; and to her, our ideas concerning cards seem as absurd -as though applied to tennis or golf. Personally, I see no reason why she -should not continue to amuse herself in her own way. It is true I do not -play cards; but she knows, what both you and I understand perfectly, -that this is a concession on my part to the extreme views of my mother, -who could hardly expect my wife to have exactly the same spirit. I have -told Irene that out of deference to your feelings, I do not want her to -entertain her friends with cards, in the parlors, but she certainly -ought to be left free to do in her own rooms what she pleases." - -At almost any other period in Mrs. Burnham's life, a formal and -elaborate expression of her son's views upon any subject, given in a -haughty and almost dictatorial tone, such as he was using, would have -filled his mother with astonishment and pain. She was almost curiously -interested in herself on discovering that she had passed that stage, and -was occupying her mind for the moment with quite a different matter. - -Why had Irene chosen just this line of attack? What did she hope to -accomplish by such a singularly distorted representation of their talk -together? It must have been sadly distorted to have moved Erskine to an -exhibition of annoyance such as he had never before shown to her. Yet -had he been present at the interview, his mother felt confident that it -would not have disturbed him. - -She went swiftly over the talk, in memory, while Erskine waited, and -fingered the books and magazines on her table with the air of a nervous -man who wanted to appear at ease. It had been a brief conversation, not -significant at least to an observer, in any way. Irene had been looking -over the mail, and had exclaimed at an invitation. - -"The Wheelers are giving another card party; what indefatigable -entertainers they are! it isn't a month since their last one. This time -it is a very select few, in Mrs. Harry Wheeler's rooms. That is what -Erskine and I must do, since you won't allow cards in the parlors. Have -you really such queer notions, mother, as Erskine pretends?" - -Mrs. Burnham remembered just how carefully she had watched her words, in -reply. - -"I don't play cards, Irene, if that is what you mean." - -"Oh, I mean a great deal more than that. Erskine says you won't allow -such wicked things in your part of the house. Is that so?" - -"We have never had them in the house since Judge Burnham changed his -views with regard to them." - -"Oh, did he change? how curious, for a lawyer, too! I don't believe -Erskine will get notional as he grows older. He isn't one of that kind." -Whereupon the older woman had turned resolutely away, resolved to speak -no more words on the subject unless they were spoken in Erskine's -presence. It was this conversation, reported, that had brought her son -to her in his new and lofty mood of guardian of his wife's liberties! -Just as he tossed down the magazine with which he had been playing, with -the air of one who meant to wait no longer, his mother spoke with gentle -dignity. - -"Erskine, of course your rooms are your own, to do with as you will. I -made no restrictions and hinted at none. On my desk under the -paper-weight is the quotation you wished looked up, and also the -statistics about which you asked." Then she turned and passed out, to -the hall. - -All this was on a midsummer morning nearly three months removed from -that moonlighted evening on which this mother had renewed her solemn -pledge to be to her son and her son's wife all that they would let her -be. In the face of steady resistance she had been fairly true to the -pledge. It had now become quite plain to her that it was not chance, nor -mere heedlessness, that was working against her, but that Mrs. Erskine -Burnham meant to resist her, meant to look upon her as a force in her -way, to be got rid of if possible; if not by persuading her son to leave -her, then, perhaps by making her so uncomfortable that she would leave -him. The plan was not succeeding. Ruth Erskine Burnham had lived through -too many trying experiences before this time to be easily routed. She -was in the home to which her husband had brought her as a bride, and she -meant that nothing but a stern sense of duty should ever separate her -from it. - -Yet Mrs. Erskine Burnham, if she had but known it, had accomplished -much. The mother no longer turned with a sickening pain from the thought -of Erskine having other home than hers. There were times when she could -almost have joined his wife in pleading for that "cunning little -cottage." There were days wherein she told herself breathlessly and very -secretly, that for Erskine to come home to her for a single half-hour, -_alone_, would compensate for days of absence. - -But if she had changed her point of view, so had Irene. His wife talked -to him no more of a home by themselves. She was growing fond of the -many-roomed, rambling old house whose utter abandonment to luxurious -comfort was the talk and the pride of the neighborhood; and was the -result of years of careful study on the part of a cultured woman -accustomed to luxuries. - -The new Mrs. Burnham developed an interest in the carefully-trained -servants who had been a part of the establishment for so many years that -they said "our" and "ours" in speaking of its belongings. She came to -realize, at least in a measure, that servants like these were hard to -secure, and harder to keep. She began also to like the comfort of -proprietorship, without the accompanying sense of responsibility. The -machinery of this house could move on steadily without break or jar, and -without an hour of care or thought bestowed by her; yet her slightest -order was obeyed promptly and skilfully. - -Her orders were growing more and more frequent, and it was becoming -increasingly apparent to those who had eyes to see that "young Mrs. -Burnham," as some of them called her, was assuming the reins and being -recognized as the head of the house. - -Ellen, the maid who had been with Mrs. Burnham since Erskine's boyhood, -and who was a rebel against other authority than hers, had openly -rebelled, one day, and with blazing eyes that yet softened when the -tears came, assured Ruth that she could not have two mistresses, -especially when the one who wasn't mistress at all took pains to -contradict the orders of the other; and if she had got to be ordered -about all the time by Mrs. Erskine, the sooner she went, the better. - -"Very well, Ellen," Mrs. Burnham had said, holding her tones to cold -dignity. "I shall be sorry to part with you, but it is quite certain -that so long as you remain in the house you must obey Mrs. Erskine -Burnham's slightest wish. If you cannot do this, of course we must -separate." - -So Ellen went. In a perfect storm of tears and sobs and regrets, it is -true; but she went. This arrangement pleased just one person. Erskine -openly complained that her successor was not and never would be a -circumstance to Ellen, and made his mother confess that she missed Ellen -sorely, and asked her why, after being faithfully served for twenty -years, she could not have borne with a few peculiarities. His mother was -thankful that he did not insist upon knowing just what form her -peculiarities took, and his wife's eyes sparkled. She had recognized -Ellen from the first as an enemy, and had meant to be rid of her. - -In short, Mrs. Erskine Burnham had settled down. She told her special -friends with a cheerful sigh that she had sacrificed herself to her -husband's mother, who was growing old and ought not to be burdened with -the care of a house. So, much as they would have enjoyed a home to -themselves, they had determined to stay where they were. - -So steady and skilful were this General's movements toward supremacy -that Ruth herself scarcely realized the fact that when she gave an order -in these days, she did it hesitatingly, often adding as an -afterthought:-- - -"Let that be the arrangement, unless Mrs. Erskine Burnham has other -plans; if she has, remember, I am not at all particular." And she was -never surprised any more by the discovery that there was a totally -different arrangement. It was therefore in exceeding bad taste for -Erskine Burnham to present himself to his mother in lofty mood and -threaten her with a separate home for himself and wife. One of his -mother's chief concerns at this time was to shield him from the -knowledge that she sometimes prayed for solitude as the safest way out -of the thickening clouds. That he did not realize any of this can only -be attributed to the condition of which his wife often accused him; -namely, that he was "as blind as a bat." - -The proposed card-party at the Wheelers' came off in due time, both -Irene and Erskine being among the guests. Within the month, Irene gave -what the next morning's social column called "an exclusive and charming -affair" of the same kind in her own rooms. It is true that she had -schemed for a different result from this. She had meant to give a card -party on a larger scale. Her careful rendering to her husband of the -talk about restrictions had been intended to call from him the -declaration that the parlors were as much theirs as his mother's, and -that if she chose to play cards in them, no one should disturb her. She -miscalculated. Instead of this, his deliverance was more emphatic than -ever before. - -"Remember, Irene, that my mother's sense of the fitness of things must -never be infringed upon in any way that can disturb her. Our rooms are -our castle and we will do with them as we choose; but no cards -downstairs, remember, or anything else that will disturb her--" - -"Prejudices!" his wife had interrupted in a manner that she had intended -should be playful; but he had spoken quickly and with dignity. - -"Very well, prejudices if you will. I was going to say traditions; but -if you prefer the other word, it doesn't matter. Whatever they are, they -are to be respected." - -So Irene, having learned some time before this that such deliverances on -the part of her husband were to be respected, took care to keep within -the limits of their own rooms. But she took a little private revenge -upon her mother-in-law, given in that especially trying would-be playful -tone of hers. - -"I am sorry that your prejudices--oh, no, pardon me, I mean your -traditions--will not allow you to meet our guests this evening; but I -suppose that would be wicked, too? Pray how is your absence to be -accounted for? Must I trump up an attack of mumps, or dumps, or what?" - -As for Erskine, he remained happily unconscious of all these small -stings. He was much engrossed in business cares, and left home early and -returned late, so that in reality he knew little of what took place -during his absence. That all was not quite as he had hoped between his -wife and his mother he could not help seeing, but he told himself that -he must not be unreasonable; that two people as differently reared as -they had been must have time to assimilate; probably they were doing -very well, and it was he who was struggling for the impossible. So he -straightway put aside and forgot the words of dignified reproach that he -had addressed to his mother, and she became "mommie" again, and always -his second kiss of greeting was for her. And the mother during these -days thanked God that she was able to hide her disappointment and her -pain, and meet him always with a smile. - - - - - CHAPTER XV - - LOOKING BACKWARD - - -MRS. BURNHAM came into the room with the air of one in doubt as to whom -she was to meet. Probably it was some one whom she ought to recognize; -and if she did not, it would be embarrassing. - -"She would not give any name, ma'am," the maid had said. "She says she -is an old acquaintance, and she wants to see if you will know her." - -But Ruth did not know her. She had a fairly good memory for faces, yet -as she advanced she told herself that this woman was mistaken in the -person. There must be some other Mrs. Burnham whom she had known. But -the lady who arose to meet her was apparently not disappointed, and was -at her ease and eager. - -"I hope you will forgive this intrusion, dear Mrs. Burnham. I could not -resist the temptation to see if you had a lingering remembrance of the -silly girl to whom you were once very good. It was foolish in me to -fancy such a thing. I was just at the age to change much in a few -years." - -Mrs. Burnham was studying the fair and singularly reposeful face; taking -in unconsciously at the same time the grace of the whole perfect -picture, hair and eyes and dress and form, all in exquisite harmony. - -"A perfect lady!" she told herself. "How rarely the phrase fits, and how -exactly it applies here. Yet where before have I seen that face?" She -was back in the old college town, away back, among the early years. What -had suddenly taken her there? She was--this was not!-- - -"You are surely not," she began, and hesitated. - -The fair face broke into rippling smiles. - -"Yes," she said, "I am. Do you really remember Mamie Parker just a -little bit?" - -"I remember her, perfectly, but--" - -"But I am changed? Yes, fifteen years make changes in young people. I -was not much over eighteen then, and very young for my years. But you -have not changed, Mrs. Burnham; I should have known you anywhere. -Perhaps that is partly because I have carried you around in my heart all -these years. It must be beautiful to be able to do for girls all that -you did for me. If I could do it, if I could be to one young girl what -you became to me, I should know that I had not lived in vain." - -Mrs. Burnham was almost embarrassed. What did the woman mean! - -"My dear friend, I do not understand," she said. "There must be some -strange mistake. Have you not confused me with some other friend? What -could I possibly have done for you in the few, the very few times that -we met?" - -Her caller laughed a low, sweet laugh, and as she spoke made an -inimitable gesture with her hands that emphasized her words. - -"You did everything for me," she said. "Everything! You gave me ideals, -you refashioned my entire view of life; you were the means God used to -breathe into me the spirit of real living. May I claim a little of your -time to-day, and tell you just a little bit of the story, for a purpose? -I had only this one day here, and I felt compelled to intrude without -permission." - -Mrs. Burnham heard her almost as one in a dream. She was struggling with -her memories; trying to find in this fair vision, with her refined voice -and dress, and cultured language and perfect manner, a trace of the -singularly ill-bred, loud-voiced, outspoken Mamie Parker. How had such a -transformation been possible? - -"You have but one day here?" she said, remembering her duties as -hostess. "What does that mean, please? Are you staying in the -neighborhood, and will you not come to us for a visit?" - -"Thank you, I cannot. I am about to leave the country, and am paying a -very brief farewell visit to my friends the Carletons, who are at their -summer home in Carleton Park. I have broken away to-day from the -numerous engagements they have made for me, and run over here alone, in -the hope of securing an interview with you; I have been planning for -this a long time. Dear Mrs. Burnham, may I claim the privilege of an old -acquaintance and ask to see you quite alone where there will be no -danger of interruption? I want to talk fast and put a good deal into a -small space, because my own time is so limited, and I do not want to -take more of yours than is necessary. I have a purpose which I think, -and I hope you will think, justifies my intrusion." - -Still as one under a spell, Mrs. Burnham led the way to her private -sitting room and established her guest in an easy-chair, from which she -looked about her eagerly. - -"This is charming!" she said. "I remember your other room perfectly, -Mrs. Burnham, and I think I should have recognized this as yours without -being told. Rooms have a great deal of individuality, don't you think? -Do you remember that parlor in the house where my dear brother Jim -boarded? No, of course you don't, but I do, and I thought it very -elegant until I was admitted to yours. May I tell you very briefly just -a little of what you have been to me? That winter when I met you and -your son--it was my first flight from home. I was young, you remember, -and unformed in every way; I was, in fact, a young simpleton, with as -little knowledge of the world as a girl reared as I had been would be -likely to have. Up to that time I had cared very little for study of any -kind. My opportunities were limited enough, but I had made very poor use -even of them. My chief idea of a successful life was to marry young, -some one who had plenty of money and who would be good to me and let me -have a good time. I was what is called a popular girl in the little -country village where I lived, and was much sought after because I was -what they called 'lively' and could 'make things go.' When my brother -invited me to visit him, I went in a flutter of anticipation. I had -grown rather tired of the country boys by whom I was surrounded, and I -believed that the fateful hour of my life had at last arrived." - -She stopped to laugh at her folly; then said, apologetically, "I am -giving you the whole crude story, but it is for a purpose. I can laugh -at that silly girl, now, but there have been times in my life when I -cried over her. She knew so little in any direction, and there were such -possibilities of danger, such imminent fear of a wrecked life. She -needed a friend, as every girl does; and I can never cease to be -thankful that she found one. - -"Mrs. Burnham, I presume you have never understood what you did for me -by calling on me and inviting me to your home, and opening to me a new -world. We were very plain people with limited opportunities in every -way, and my father's sudden financial success but a short time before -had almost turned our heads; mine, at least, so that I was ready to be -injured in many ways. Do you remember me sufficiently to realize the -possibilities?" - -"I remember you perfectly, my dear," said her puzzled and charmed -hostess. "But I do not understand in the least why you think, or how you -can think, that I--" - -Miss Parker interrupted her eagerly. - -"Mrs. Burnham, you were a revelation to me. I had never before come into -close contact with a perfect lady. At first, I was afraid of you, which -was a new feeling to me, and in itself good for me; and then, for a -while, I hated you; I thought that you came between me and some of my -ambitions, I called them; now I know that they were utter follies." -There was a heightened color on the fair face, and for a moment her eyes -drooped. Then she laughed softly at her girlish follies. - -"I recovered from them," she said briskly, "and enshrined you in my -heart; made you my idol, and, better than that, my ideal. I had -discovered from you what woman was meant to be. - -"And, dear friend, I learned another lesson also, deeper and more -far-reaching than any other. Up to that time I had always thought of -religion as a very serious but somewhat tiresome experience that came to -the old, or the sick, after they had got all they could out of life. It -was Mr. Erskine Burnham who first showed me my utter misunderstanding of -the whole matter. I do not know that he understood at the time what he -was doing for me, but he gave me a hint of what Jesus Christ was, not -only to you, but to himself, a young man in the first flush of youthful -successes. I could not understand it at first, and it half vexed me by -its strangeness; but there came a time in my life, afterward, when I was -disappointed in all my plans, and unhappy. Then I thought of what had -been said to me about Christ, and, almost as an experiment, I tried it. -Mrs. Burnham, He stooped even to that low plane and revealed Himself to -me, and I have counted it all joy to love and serve Him ever since And -for this, too, I have to thank you and yours." - -"My dear," said Mrs. Burnham, the tears shining in her eyes, "thank you; -thank you very much; it is beautiful, although I do not understand it in -the least--my part of it; I did nothing, _nothing_! I thought of it -afterward with deep regret; what I might have said, and did not." - -"You did better than that," said Miss Parker, gently. "You _lived_. But -now, believe me, I did not intrude upon your leisure merely to talk -about myself. I wanted you to understand the possibility of saving a -girl's life to her, because--" - -She broke off suddenly to introduce what seemed an entirely irrelevant -topic. - -"Mrs. Burnham, I saw your daughter down town to-day, for a moment. I did -not know her, and should not have imagined it was she, if I had not been -told. She has changed very much since I saw her last." - -"Were you acquainted with my daughter, Miss Parker? Is it Miss Parker, -now? I am taking a great deal for granted." - -"Oh, yes; I am still 'Miss Parker'; and expect so to remain. No, I -cannot be said to have been acquainted with your daughter, though I knew -of her; knew a great deal about her, in fact, when she was a young girl. -They were the one great family in our little town, Mrs. Burnham--her -uncle's family, with whom she lived; they had a fine old place, three -miles from the station, and your daughter used to drive to and from the -train in what seemed to me then like royal state. I watched her on all -possible occasions and admired and envied her always, though I do not -suppose she ever heard of me in her life. She was not so very much older -than I, only three years, but I remember I was still counted as a little -girl when her sudden marriage took us all by surprise and overwhelmed me -with jealous envy." - -"Pardon me," said Mrs. Burnham, sitting erect and looking not only -perplexed but troubled. "I am somewhat dazed by this sudden return to -the long ago, and I must be getting things mixed. I thought until a -moment ago that you were speaking of my son's wife." - -"So I am, Mrs. Burnham. She was Irene Carpenter when I was at the -envious stage; and she became Irene Somerville in the autumn that I was -fourteen. I shall never forget the vision I had of her on her wedding -day. It was at the station and the train was late, so I had ample -opportunity to admire and make note of and sigh over the glories of her -bridal travelling outfit. Although I was only fourteen and accounted a -little girl by others, I by no means considered myself such; and the -wild and foolish visions I had already indulged with regard to my own -splendid future, make me blush even now to recall. Girls are so foolish, -Mrs. Burnham, and so easily led! If there were only always some wise, -sweet one at hand to lead them safely!" - -Mrs. Burnham arose suddenly and closed both of the doors opening into -the hall. She knew that her son was in town, and that his wife had gone -by appointment to meet him there; but it seemed to her that such -extraordinary talk as this must be closed away from the hall through -which they must presently pass. What could this woman mean? She but -fourteen when Irene was married? Yet she was at least eighteen when she -visited her brother in the college town, and that was nearly fifteen -years ago! Irene a married woman seventeen or eighteen years ago! She -could see a line in that fateful foreign letter from her son as -distinctly as though she were reading it from the page, 'although she is -so young, barely twenty-six, she has,' etc. Of course there was some -absurd mistake. Irene could not have been more than eight or nine years -old at that time when some one whom Mamie Parker fancied was the same -person, was married. - -"How old do you think my son's wife is?" she asked suddenly. A few -statistics, such as she could furnish, would help to clear up this -absurd blunder. - -"Oh, I know exactly. I have a vivid recollection of the wonderful doings -there were in honor of her sixteenth birthday. It happens that our -birthdays fall on the very same month and day, the eleventh of November; -so that on the day she was sixteen, I was thirteen. I remember how -sorely I took to heart the contrast between the two celebrations. It was -before my father had made his successes, and we were much straitened at -the time." - -Mrs. Burnham's pulses were athrob with her effort at self-control. It -was true that Irene's birthday fell on the eleventh of November. It had -been celebrated with much circumstance that very season; but instead of -its being her twenty-seventh, Miss Parker's story would make it her -thirty-seventh! That was absurd! And yet--how often had the thought -occurred to her that Irene looked much older than her years! Her maiden -name, too, was Carpenter, and her married name had been Somerville. -Still, there must have been a cousin, or some near relative of the same -name. It was an insult to the family to suppose for a moment that Irene -could deceive her husband as to her exact age! - -And then, Miss Parker made a remark before which all else that she had -said sank into insignificance. - -"Mrs. Erskine Burnham as I saw her to-day, seemed to me a very beautiful -woman, though she does not look in the least as she did when a girl. But -her daughter does. At seventeen, Maybelle is really the image of what -her mother was at that age. I wish so much that you could see her just -now, in all her girlish beauty." - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - - FOR MAYBELLE'S SAKE - - -MRS. BURNHAM stared at her guest with a look that was not simply -bewildered, it was frightened. What _could_ the woman mean! - -"Who is Maybelle?" she spoke the words almost fiercely; but her -bewildered guest kept her voice low and gentle. - -"I must ask you to forgive me, dear Mrs. Burnham. I know that my words -must seem very intrusive, perhaps unpardonable; but indeed I thought I -was doing right, and it is for Maybelle's sake alone that I have -ventured." - -The repetition of that name seemed to irritate Mrs. Burnham. "Will you -tell me who she is?" she asked imperiously. - -"My friend, is it possible that you do not understand? or do you mean -that it is your pleasure to ignore her? Of course you know that there -was a child, a little daughter?" - -"Whose daughter?" - -"The daughter of the lady who afterward became your son's wife." Mamie -Parker was growing indignant. However painful the subject might be to -Erskine Burnham's mother, certainly the child was not to blame; nor -could she, who was apparently the child's only friend, be quite beyond -the line of toleration because she had ventured to try to awaken -sympathy for her in the heart of a woman who certainly had reason to be -interested in her story. Whatever had taken place to hurt them, surely -the child ought not to suffer for it. - -Mrs. Burnham struggled for composure. Even at that moment the thought -uppermost in her mind was that she must shield her son; yes, and her -son's wife, if possible. Something terrible had happened somewhere. A -confusion of persons, probably, or--she could not think clearly, but -there was something, some story, which she must ferret out to its -foundation, and must at the same time hide from her son, unless--she -would not complete that thought. - -"You will forgive me I am sure for not being able to quite follow you." -Her voice though cold and constrained was again self-controlled, and she -even forced a smile. - -"I think I must be unusually stupid this afternoon. There is some -misunderstanding that I do not yet quite grasp. This--child? is she?--of -whom you are speaking, she is not,--not alone in the world? Why does she -especially need a friend?" - -Miss Parker's bewildered look returned; they were not getting on. She -hesitated a moment, then said firmly:-- - -"Her father is still living, Mrs. Burnham, but he is seriously ill, and -she will soon be quite alone. At the best, the father, as you probably -know, is not the kind of friend that one would choose for a young girl, -though he has tried to be good to her, in his way." - -Mrs. Burnham suddenly leaned forward and grasped the arm of her caller, -and spoke with more vehemence than before, though this time her voice -was low. - -"What do you mean?" she said. "Isn't it possible for you to speak -plainly? How should I know what you are talking about? Her '_father_'! -Whose father? Who is she? What is she? And what are either of them to -me? I do not understand in the least." - -"Mrs. Burnham," said Mamie Parker, sitting erect, with a bright spot of -color burning on either cheek, "do you mean me to understand that you -are ignorant of the fact that your son married a woman who was divorced -from her first husband in less than three years after her marriage, and -left with him a little child not six months old, who is now a young -woman?" - -It was well for Ruth Burnham that she could do just what she did at that -moment, although it was for her an unprecedented thing. Every vestige of -self-control gave way; she covered her face with her hands and broke -into a perfect passion of weeping. Not the slow quiet weeping natural to -a woman of her years, but a tempestuous outburst that shook her whole -frame with its force. - -The distressed witness of this misery sat for a moment irresolute, then -she came softly to Mrs. Burnham's side and touched the bowed head with a -gentle, caressing movement such as one might give to a little child, and -spoke low and tenderly. - -"Dear friend, forgive me; I am so sorry! I did not for a moment imagine -that I was telling you anything that you did not already know. I felt my -rudeness in coming to you with matters about which I was supposed to -know nothing, but I thought you had, perhaps, been misinformed, and that -if you could once understand, poor Maybelle would--" - -Then she stopped. There seemed nothing that she could say, while that -bowed form was shaken with emotion. - -It passed in a few minutes. The woman who was accustomed to exercising -self-control could not long be under the dominion of her emotions. She -raised her head and spoke quietly. - -"I hope you can forgive me for making your errand so hard. My nerves do -not often play me false in this way. You did right to come to me. Now, -may I ask you to begin at the beginning and tell me all that you know -about this matter? You are correct in your inference; there are some -things that I have not understood." - -It was rather a long story. Miss Parker, feeling herself dismissed from -the place of comforter, went back to her chair and tried to obey -directions and begin at the beginning; held closely to her work by keen -incisive questions. - -Yes, she had known Mr. Somerville before he married Irene Carpenter; or -rather, she had known of him, as girls in country villages always knew -about any people who came their way. He was an Englishman of good -family, a younger son she had heard, though just what significance -attached to that, she had not understood at the time. He had the name -among the young people of being wild. They had heard that Irene's uncle -disapproved of the match, and threatened to lock her up if she tried to -have anything more to do with him. She, Mamie, knowing something of -Irene's temperament, had always thought that this was what precipitated -matters. She knew that Irene was married during her uncle's absence from -home, and that there were some exciting scenes after his return. - -The newly married couple went abroad very soon, but they stayed only a -short time, and rumor had it that they quarrelled with Mr. Somerville's -family and were not invited to stay longer. After that, they lived in -New York in good style for a few months, and Mrs. Somerville went into -society and was said to be very gay. Yes, she had heard a number of -things about that winter, but the stories were contradictory and not -reliable. Oh, yes, some of the stories were ugly, but gossip was always -that; she could not go into details about that period; there was nothing -reliable, and nothing that she cared to talk of. It was when the child -was about six months old that her father and mother quarrelled and -separated. Oh, yes, there was a divorce; she had made an effort to -discover the truth about that, for the little girl's sake, and was sure -of it. The mother went abroad with some friends and remained there for -several years. - -She had heard that she served as nursery governess in an American family -who were living in Berlin, for the purpose of educating their sons. She -knew that this was so, because she had met one of the sons, later, and -he had told her about her; she went by the name of Carpenter--Miss -Carpenter. After leaving that family, Miss Parker did not know what she -had done; knew nothing of her for several years. Then she came back to -the old homestead and lived there for some time with a maiden aunt who -was all that was left of the family, and was an invalid. She had heard -that Irene was not contented there, and knew that after a time she and -the invalid aunt went abroad. It was while they were living in Paris -that Mr. Erskine Burnham met them. Miss Parker had heard of his marriage -almost immediately, because she had friends in Paris at the time who had -met both Miss Carpenter and Mr. Burnham. Indeed all these items had come -to her from time to time by a series of accidents or happenings. She had -admired Irene Carpenter at a distance as a girl, and that had made it -seem natural to inquire after her, as opportunity offered. - -Oh, yes, she had known more or less of Mr. Somerville during all these -years. He had remained in New York much of the time; though he had twice -crossed the ocean, and once had gone to the Pacific coast, always taking -Maybelle with him. - -Her first meeting with him in New York had been at the studio of an -artist friend for whom he was doing some work. She had seen the child -first, a beautiful little girl who had charmed her; then he had come in -and she had been shocked on recognizing him, to think that she must have -been playing with Irene's little girl. He was an amateur artist, never -working steadily enough to make a success for himself, but doing very -good work, and earning his living in that way. Oh, yes, and in music -also, it was much the same story. He was in frail health, was unsteady, -and could not be depended upon; but could play divinely when he chose, -and on occasion earned money in that way, playing the violin, or piano, -or organ. He always took the child with him and seemed devoted to her, -never speaking other than gently to her; and he seemed to try to train -her wisely. It was pathetic to see him making an effort to fill the -place of both father and mother. Oh, yes, she saw a great deal of him, -or rather, of the child, in whom she had been singularly interested from -the first, of course. - -Her father had moved his family to New York about that time, and she was -in school as a real student for the first time in her life. But she gave -most of her leisure to the little Maybelle. Her mother became very fond -of the child, and after a while they kept her with them much of the -time, to the great comfort of the father, who owned that he often had to -go to places where he did not like to take the baby. - -Yes, she came to know the father quite well. Maybelle had been allowed -always to suppose that her mother was dead. She never questioned, having -taken that for granted. Her father, however, during one of his ill turns -when he thought he was going to die, had revealed to her mother and -herself the sorrowful story of his life, and had shown them Irene's -picture. Miss Parker believed that he had a faint hope that when he was -gone, the mother would see that their child was cared for. - -Yes, he had told her only the truth. She had taken pains to corroborate -that part of the story which she had not known before; had gone herself -to see the woman with whom they had been boarding when his wife left -him. The woman said that Mr. Somerville had come home intoxicated the -night before; "not bad," the poor creature said, "only silly," but the -next morning he and his wife had quarrelled, and she went away and never -came back. - -Being closely cross-questioned Miss Parker added, that the woman had -further given it as her opinion that Mrs. Somerville meant all along to -be "that shabby," and was only waiting for a good excuse; that she -didn't care a "toss up" for her husband, nor the baby neither, though he -"just doted" on both of them. - -Yes, Miss Parker had talked with him more than once about his sad, -wrecked life. She considered him a weak man rather than an intentionally -wicked one. He had never spoken ill of his wife. He said frankly that -their marriage was a mistake, and that it was his fault. Irene was too -young to be married to any one, but he was fascinated with her, and -determined to win her at any cost. The truth was, he said, he cheated -her. She was tired of her humdrum life in that dull village where her -people spent much of their time; she longed to get away, to travel; -above all she wanted to go abroad. She had inferred that, because he was -from across the water, and belonged to an old family and could show her -pictures of a fine old estate that had been in the family for -generations, he was therefore wealthy; and he had let her think so. It -was the discovery that she had been deceived in this respect, he said, -that made her begin to really dislike him, he thought, instead of being -simply indifferent to him, as she had been at first. He made no pretence -of believing that she had ever loved him. - -No, he could not say that she had ever seemed to love the child. At -first she had been angry about it, looking at it merely in the light of -a hindrance to the few pleasures she could have, cooped up in a -boarding-house; and the strongest feeling she had ever shown for the -helpless little creature was toleration. - -When they quarrelled, and she threatened to leave him, he had told her -that she could not take the baby, and she had replied that it was the -last thing she wanted to do. But he had not believed her; he had not -thought such a state of mind possible. The little thing, he said, had so -wound itself about his heart that the thought of living without her was -torture; and he had believed that the mother felt the same, but did not -choose to own it. He had taken the baby to a friend of his for the day, -and felt secure all day in the thought that Irene would be drawn -homeward from wherever she went that morning, by the memory of the -clinging arms and smiling baby face. But she had never come back. - -At this point Ruth Erskine Burnham lost her studied self-control and -said the only unguarded word that she had spoken since the interview -began. - -"That is monstrous! I cannot credit it. The woman who would do such a -thing as that would be a fiend!" - -"Oh, no!" said Miss Parker, startled at the feeling she had roused, and -remembering that they were speaking of this woman's son's wife. "He did -not feel it so, the father. He made excuses for her. Even while he was -telling me the story, he stopped to say simply:-- - -"'You see I didn't stop to consider that she disliked and despised me, -by this time, and that the baby was my child; that made all the -difference in the world;' and of course it would, Mrs. Burnham." - - - - - CHAPTER XVII - - BUILT ON THE SAND - - -"YOUR mother has had a very special guest of some sort and was closeted -with her all the afternoon; I suppose she is tired out; she looked so -when I met her in the hall." - -This was Mrs. Erskine Burnham's explanation to her husband of his -mother's absence from the dinner table. They had waited for her a few -minutes, then sent a maid to her room, who had reported that Mrs. -Burnham was tired and did not care for dinner. - -Erskine, on hearing it, had made a movement to rise, a troubled look on -his face, and then had waited for his wife's word. - -"A guest in her own room? That is unusual for mother, isn't it? Who was -it?" - -"How should I know? I wasn't enlightened. When I reached home soon after -luncheon, I asked Nannie who had been here, and among others she -mentioned a young lady who had asked very particularly to see 'Madame -Burnham,' and said that after a while she took the lady to her own -sitting room, and she was there yet. She left but a few minutes before -you came, a very stylish-looking person, indeed, and quite young. It is -fortunate that she did not stay for dinner, as I supposed she would, -having spent the day, or I might have been seized with a fit of -jealousy." - -"Did you say my mother looked worn? Were you in her room?" - -"No, indeed! I did not presume; I all but ran against her in the hall, -and thought she looked older than usual." - -"She may have had some unpleasant news; I think I will run up and see -her." - -"Don't, Erskine! I am sure you annoy your mother by such watchfulness. -Old people don't like that sort of care, it seems to them like spying -upon their movements; they want a chance to do as they please. I found -that out from auntie; she seemed really annoyed when I questioned her -about her movements. She wanted to be left to come to her dinner, or -stay away, as she pleased; and your mother is just like her." - -Erskine opened his lips to speak, then closed them again. He was on the -verge of saying that he could not think of two people more unlike than -his mother and her aunt; then it occurred to him that to make a remark -so manifestly in favor of his own relative would hardly be courteous. Of -course Irene thought of her aunt much as he did of his mother, and -besides, the aunt was gone. - -But he did not go up to his mother. It is true that he told his wife, -presently, that he could not think for a moment that his care of and -solicitude for his mother would ever look to her like espionage; they -understood each other too well for that; but he spoke in a troubled -tone. Despite this perfect understanding, his wife's constancy to the -belief that his mother was growing old, and more or less feeble, and -whimsical, as she believed old people always did, was having its effect -upon him; he was beginning to feel at times that perhaps he did not -understand his mother, after all. - -It was well for his peace of mind that he did not go to her just then; -for the first time in his life he would have been refused admittance to -his mother's room. Ruth Erskine Burnham had shut herself away as much as -she could from her outside world, and was fighting the battle of her -life. A wild temptation was upon her, so strong that in its first -strength she could not have resisted it, had she tried, and she did not -try. It was so transformed that it did not appear to her as a -temptation, but as a duty. Erskine's wife had deceived him; not once, in -a crucial moment, but steadily, deliberately, continuously. Not only had -she posed for him as a widow, but she had given him vivid pictures of -her girlish desolation in her widowhood. His mother knew this, for -Erskine had reproduced some of them in a few delicate touches, with the -evident object of awakening in her a tender sympathy for one who, though -so young, had suffered much. - -"Young!" indeed! she had even stooped to the low and petty deception of -making herself out to be much younger than she was! could an honorable -man condone such small and unnecessary meannesses as that? Especially in -his wife! And Erskine was married to her. Erskine of all men in the -world the husband of a divorced woman! And he was on record in the -public journals as one who had denounced with no gentle tongue the whole -system of legal divorce as permitted in this country; he had -characterized it as unrighteous and infamous. Young as he was, he had -made himself felt in legal circles along this very line, and was -recognized as a strong advocate for better laws and purer living. - -So pronounced had he been on this whole subject that certain of his -brother lawyers who, in the main, agreed with his views, did not -hesitate to tell him that he was too severe, and was trying to -accomplish the impossible. His mother, in the light of her recently -acquired knowledge, laughed, a cruel laugh, then shivered and turned -pale over the memory of a recent conversation which had now grown -significant. - -The pastor of their church, Mr. Conway's successor, was dining with -them, and the talk had turned for a moment on the recent marriage of one -of the parties in a famous divorce suit. Erskine had declared that if he -were a clergyman, he should consider it his privilege as well as duty to -anticipate the law that was surely coming and refuse to perform the -marriage ceremony for a divorced person. - -"Oh, now, brother Burnham," the clergyman had said, good naturedly, -after a brief, keen argument on both sides: "Don't you really draw the -lines too closely? You are not reasonable. Do you think he is, Mrs. -Burnham?"--the appeal was to Erskine's wife--"You see you have made no -allowance for accidents, or misunderstandings of any sort. What would -you have a poor woman do who was caught as an acquaintance of mine was, -a year or so ago? She married a divorced man without having the remotest -idea that he had ever been married before, and did not discover it until -six months afterward. Where would those sweeping assertions you have -been making place her?" - -Erskine had not smiled as he replied:-- - -"I was not speaking, of course, of people who had been the victims of -cruel deception; certainly if I believed in divorce, I should consider -that the woman you mention had sufficient cause." - -"Because she had been deceived!" - -"For just that reason. At least it must be terrible for a woman to spend -her life with a man whose word she cannot trust. I should think it would -be just ground for separation if anything is." - -His mother recalled not only the energy of his tones, but the suddenness -with which his wife introduced another topic. - -Then there flashed upon her the memory of the clergyman's next remark, -addressed to her:-- - -"Mrs. Burnham, is your daughter always as pale as she is to-day, or has -our near approach to a quarrel, just now, frightened her?" Whereupon the -color had flamed into Irene's face until her very forehead was flushed; -and Erskine, looking at her, had said gayly:-- - -"My wife always blushes when she is the subject of conversation." What -terrible significance attached to all these trifles now! - -But, worse than all else, the woman had deserted and disowned her own -child! So impossibly preposterous did this seem to Erskine Burnham's -mother, that although she had detained her guest until a late hour, and -questioned and cross-questioned, and insisted upon yet more proof, and -been shown that there was not a possibility of error, she still shrank -from it as something that could not be. - -"Can a mother forget her child?" It was the question of inspiration, -designed to show the almost impossibility of such a thing; yet -inspiration had answered, "Yes, she may!" and here, under their own -roof, was a living proof of its truth. - -"_How_ could she! How _could_ she!" The mother-nature continually went -back to that awful question. Suppose she had not? Suppose she had taken -the child away with her, and mothered it all these years, and, at last, -Erskine had married her? Then he would have stood in the place of father -to that girl, and she would have been taught to call him so! His poor -mother shivered as though in an ague chill as the strange, and to her -appalling, details of this life-tragedy pressed upon her. A tragedy all -the more terrible and bewildering because they had been--some of -them--living it unawares. - -The possibility that Erskine might have knowledge of this appalling -story did not, even for a moment, occur to his mother. She knew him too -well for that. Erskine had been deceived, fearfully deceived! not only -in great and terrible ways, as one under awful provocation, but in petty -details,--as to her age, for instance; and that this was merely an -instance, Ruth knew only too well. - -By slow degrees the conviction had been forced upon this truth-loving -woman that she had for a daughter one to whom the truth was as a trifle -to be trampled upon a dozen times a day if the fancy seized her. - -Numberless instances of this had been thrust upon a close observer. -"Yes," she would say unhesitatingly and unblushingly to Erskine, when -his mother knew that "No" would have been the truth. Even the servants -had learned to smile over this peculiarity in their young mistress, and -to make efforts to have witnesses for any of her orders that were -important. With the outside world she was so unpardonably careless of -her word that Mrs. Burnham was almost growing used to apologizing for -and blushing over her daughter's society inaccuracies. - -Given a woman like Ruth Erskine Burnham, belonging to a family in whom, -generations back, there had been martyrs for the truth's sake, trained -from her very babyhood to despise every false way, self-trained, through -the years, to hold with almost painful insistence to whatever she had -seemed to promise, perhaps no other fault would have been harder to -condone in others. She was still struggling to try to love her -daughter-in-law, but she knew that she had ceased to respect her. - -It was this condition of things which had made it possible for her to -credit Miss Parker's story. Since Irene's moral twist with regard to -truth was most apparent, why should she be expected to spurn the thought -of other immoralities? - -It was while Ruth Burnham was at this stage of her mental confusion that -the temptation of her life came to her, clad in the white robes of truth -and honor. It came, of course, by way of Erskine. He must know the whole -blighting story and must know it at once. He must be told that the woman -whom he had blessed with his love and whom he was tenderly sheltering -from a rude world was a woman who could trample upon marriage vows, -desert her first-born child, and lie about it all in a colossal manner; -not only once, at first, but through the years! The whole fearful -structure of Erskine's later life, built as it was upon falsehood, must -be made to tumble about him in ruins. What a cruel thing! Erskine, the -soul of honor, with as keen a love for truth as it was possible for -human being to have, must, in spite of himself, be involved in the -meshes of this false and cruel life! And yet, underneath the groan which -she had for his ruined home and his ruined hopes, was a faint little -thrill of exultation. - -When Erskine must cease to respect his wife, he could not continue to -love her with the kind of love that he was giving to her now. At the -best it could be only a pitying, protecting love, and there was a sense -in which she, his mother, would have him back again, at least to a -degree. No one knew better than herself that there was a sense in which -she had lost him. - -What would he be likely to do? Irene was his wife, and he would do his -duty at whatever cost, but just what was his duty? She tried to settle -it for him. There was the child, the young woman rather, Irene's -daughter. Would he not insist that the mother should do her tardy duty -toward the child? But what was the duty of such a mother toward such a -child? And how could anything be arranged for now, under such strange, -such startling circumstances? She did not know. She could not plan, -could not think; Erskine would have to do the thinking; but in the -meantime, where would a boy, trained as he had been, turn naturally for -sympathy but to his mother? She would have him again! She exulted in the -thought; even then, in her first recoil from sin and its consequences, -she exulted. - -And then--just in that moment of exultation--she began to realize what -she was doing, and a kind of terror of herself came upon her. Was it -possible that she was really that despicable thing, a creature so full -of self, and selfish loves, as to be able to thrill with joy, in the -very midst of a ruin that involved her best and dearest, merely because -out of it she was to gain something? - -It was a terrible night. Mrs. Burnham kept her door close locked, though -Erskine came once, and again, to seek admittance and went away puzzled -and pained: locked out from his mother's room for the first time. She -called out to him, trying to speak reassuringly, that she was not ill, -only unusually tired; she was in bed, and did not feel equal to getting -up to let him in. - -"But, mommie," he said, "I did not know that you ever locked your door -at night--not when we are together. What if you should be ill in the -night?" - -She would not be ill, she told him, and she really could not get up now -and unlock the door. - -She knew that he went away with an anxious heart, and that he came on -tiptoe several times during the night and listened; and she hated -herself for her apparent selfishness. But she could not let him in, she -was not ready yet for the questions he would be sure to ask. She had not -been able to plan how to make known to him her terrible secret. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII - - JUSTICE OR MERCY? - - -IT was just as the silver-tongued clock on her mantel was tolling one, -that the suggestion was suddenly made to Ruth Erskine Burnham that she -was planning wickedness. Instead of trying to arrange how to break the -dreadful news to Erskine, ought she not to be planning how to avoid -having him know anything about it? Two very unreconcilable statements -were in her mind clamoring to be heard. - -"Of course she must tell him!" "No, she must _not_ tell him!" "He ought -to be told!" "He ought _not_ to be told!" These in varying forms -repeated themselves in her brain until she was bewildered. And the -contradictory argument continued:-- - -"That girl, that forsaken, disowned girl--justice to her demanded the -telling." "Justice did no such thing!" "But Irene was her mother, and -had duties toward her that could not be ignored." "Irene was her mother -only in name; there was no sense in which she could, even though she -wished to do so, take the place of mother to her now." "Do not you -know," continued that other voice speaking to the stricken woman, "do -not you feel sure that for a young girl to be brought under the -direction and daily influence of such a woman as Irene, would be almost -the worst fate that could befall her?" "But Erskine has a duty toward -her; he ought--" "Erskine _cannot_! you know he cannot. Have you not -daily proof of the limit of his influence over Irene? Do you not know to -your grief that in some matters she dominates him?" - -"But Erskine ought to know the kind of woman that he is harboring. It is -horrible to have him go on loving and trusting her!" - -"Such knowledge coming to Erskine now, could work only harm. He has done -no wrong; his conscience is clear, his hands are clean. Simply to reveal -to him the former sins of the woman he has promised to love and cherish, -would be to plunge him into depths of misery, without accomplishing -anything for either the girl or his wife." - -"But Irene ought to be exposed; she ought to repent, and confess her -sin; it is monstrous to go on helping her to cover it!" - -"You have nothing to do with Irene's 'oughts.' You cannot make her -either confess or repent. To 'cover' her sin, as you call it, will not -change the moral conditions for her in any way, it will simply bring -unutterable pain and shame upon your son." - -"But ought not sin to be exposed?" - -"Not always. Sometimes to cover sin is God-like. Think, if you can, of -one helpful, hopeful result which might reasonably be expected to follow -such an exposure as you contemplate." - -It was a long-drawn-out controversy; as real to Ruth as though her soul -had separated itself from that other mysterious part of her which was -yet not her body, and stood confronting her, calm, strong, unyielding. -She tossed on her bed from side to side, and turned and re-turned her -pillows, and straightened the disordered bedclothing, and sought in vain -for an hour of rest. At times she resolutely told herself that she would -put it all aside until morning, and wait, like a reasonable being, until -her brain was clear and she was capable of reaching conclusions; then -she would compose herself for sleep, only to find that she was taking up -each minute detail of the story that had been told her and living it -over again. She could not even interest herself in any of the side -issues save for a few minutes at a time. She tried hard to centre her -thoughts about the woman, Miss Parker, and contrast her with that crude -disappointing girl by the same name that she had met years before; it -did not seem to her that they could be one and the same! What a -beautiful woman in every sense of the word this Miss Parker was! What if -she, Erskine's mother, had been gifted with foresight, in those early -years, had been able to conceive of the possibilities hidden in that -uncouth, silly country girl, and had encouraged in Erskine the interest -which she then awakened? Or, failing in that, what if she had simply -kept her hand off and let things take their course? Would this woman -with her beautiful face and gracious ways and cultivated mind and heart -have become Erskine's wife, and her daughter? How extraordinary that it -should have been Mamie Parker who had touched her life again, when she -had labored so hard to be free from her, and had succeeded! And it was -Mamie Parker who had come to the rescue of a desperately friendless girl -who ought at this moment to be sheltered in their own home! And then she -was back in the meshes of it all again! - -She arose at length and began to move softly about her room through the -darkness. She must stay in the darkness, otherwise Erskine might -discover a light and insist upon being admitted. Very softly she drew -back her curtains and looked out upon the moonless night. There were -countless stars, but they gleamed from far away and looked even more -indifferent than usual to what was going on below them. Softly she drew -a chair beside the open casement and sat down to try the effect of the -cool night air upon her throbbing head. If she could only get quiet -enough to think! But those two conflicting thoughts were still pounding -away in her brain: "Erskine must be told." "Erskine must _not_ be told!" - -Yet she made progress, and a discovery. It was beginning to humiliate -her to the very dust to discover that there was a sense in which she -wanted to tell him! No, not that, either; but she wanted him to know; -and she wanted this because she desired to have Irene dethroned! - -There were no tears shed during those hours. The victim had gone beyond -tears. Her throat felt dry and parched and her eyes burned, as one in a -fever. She was beginning to realize that this might be a conflict -between right and wrong, and that her own personality was engaged in it. -The clock struck two, struck three, and still that mother sat gazing out -on the singularly quiet night. Twice during that time she heard Erskine -come with soft footsteps, evidently to listen at her door. - -"Mamma," he said, speaking low, but so distinctly that she knew he -reasoned that if she were awake she would certainly hear him. It seemed -to her that he must hear the throbbing of her heart as she waited. A -wild desire possessed her to fling wide the door and bid him come in and -listen while she said to him: "The woman you have taken to your heart, -to love and cherish forever, is false to the truth, false to every sense -of honor, false even to her own child!" - -She clutched at the arms of her chair, to keep her, and held her breath -that it make no sound. - -Erskine went on tiptoe back to his room, and his mother, who had almost -spent her physical strength, sank limply back into her chair. But before -the clock struck again she had got to her knees. All the while she had -been conscious of a strange reluctance about going to God with this -trouble. Accustomed as she was, and had been ever since she became a -praying woman, to taking all things, small as well as great, to Him, it -had seemed strange even to herself that she held back. - -Not that she had said that she would not pray, she had simply shrunken -back with a half-frightened "Not yet, I am not ready yet; let me think." -But she reached the moment when she understood that she must have help -and must have it at once, and that only God could give it. - -She knelt long; at first speaking no words, not thinking words. Then she -broke into short, half-sobbing ejaculations: "Lord, show me the way. -Christ, son of Mary, son of God, help me!" And then the habit of years -asserted itself and the sorely shaken woman entered wholly within the -refuge and poured out her soul in prayer. - -When she arose from her knees, the rosy tints of a new day were -beginning to flush the east. She drew her shades and went back to her -bed and slept. Some things had been settled for her; she need not think -about them any more. - -The woman who a few hours later appeared at the breakfast table in a -white morning dress and with her hair carefully arranged, showed little -trace of her night's vigil, though her son regarded her searchingly. - -"I am thankful to see you here," he said. "I was quite worried about you -last night. It is so unusual not to meet you at dinner and have a little -chat with you. You did not even give a fellow a chance to say -good-night! I was sure that something was wrong." His wife laughed. - -"Erskine cannot get away from the idea that he is his mother's -nursemaid," she said lightly. "And he is a real 'Miss Nancy' for -worrying. Such a night as he gave me, merely because you did not choose -to come down to dinner! He must have trotted out to your door to listen -twenty times, at least." - -"Twice, anyway," said Erskine, gayly. "Never mind, though; she is all -right this morning, and that is more than I dared to hope." But he -watched her closely. - -"What tired you so, mamma? Or rather, who did? Irene said you had -company all the afternoon." - -"Yes, an old acquaintance. I don't think you could guess who it was." - -"Not at least without seeing her. Was she also an old acquaintance of -mine?" - -"I think you will remember her; at least you will, her brother. It was -Miss Parker." - -"'Miss Parker?' Not Mamie? How interesting! Why didn't you keep her to -dinner? I should like to have met her. Is she 'Miss Parker' still, after -all these years? That is rather surprising, isn't it? She must be thirty -or more. And what about her brother? I haven't heard anything of him to -speak of, since I left college." - -"Who are these interesting people who seem to have just sprung into -existence again?" Irene asked. "I have never heard of Mamie Parker, have -I? Is she an old sweetheart of yours?" - -"Hardly!" Erskine laughed carelessly. "There was a time during my -college life that her brother and I were rather intimate; then we -drifted apart; he was a good fellow, though. What about him, mamma?" - -"Something that greatly surprised me. Had you supposed him to be of the -material that makes missionaries? That is what he has become: a foreign -missionary. He went out to China about seven years ago, purely in a -commercial way. He represented a New York business house, but he carried -letters of introduction to our missionaries located there, and became -intimate with them and so interested in their work that, after a time, -he gave up his business entirely and became a missionary teacher." - -"Is it possible!" said Erskine. "I think he is the last one I should -have chosen for such a future; from our class, I mean. Though he was a -fine fellow with a big unselfish heart. Didn't I always insist upon -that, mamma, in the days when you did not like him very well? Weren't -there such days? I have almost forgotten." - -"I don't think I considered him remarkable," Mrs. Burnham said. "Though -I remember that Alice saw possibilities in him. She liked him for being -so good to his sister." - -"And he is really in China! How does his sister like that?" - -"So well that she is going out to be with him for a year, and perhaps -longer. She is in daily expectation of receiving a summons from a party -of missionaries with whom she is to travel. She is very enthusiastic -about it; sees ways in which she can further the work. I should not be -at all surprised if she remained there and made it her life work." - -Erskine Burnham looked curiously at his mother, as if to determine -whether she was really in earnest, then threw back his head and laughed. - -"Mamie Parker a missionary in China!" he exploded, "or anywhere else! my -imagination isn't equal to such a flight as that." - -"She has changed wonderfully, Erskine. At first I could not make myself -believe that she was really the Mamie Parker we used to know. Yet as I -studied her closely I could see a suggestion of the girlish face. She -was pretty, you remember, but I did not think her face gave promise of -the beauty it has now. However, she is more than beautiful. She is an -educated cultivated woman." - -"Educated?" Erskine repeated the word incredulously. - -"She went back to school, Erskine, the winter after she visited her -brother, and prepared for college. She is a Smith graduate, think of it! -As for culture, I don't think I ever met a more perfect-appearing lady -than she has become." - -"Dear me!" said Irene with a but slightly suppressed yawn, "what a -paragon she must be; I'm glad I didn't meet her. I detest paragons. Now, -if you, sir, can stop talking about her long enough to consider it, have -the goodness to tell me at what time I may expect you in town this -afternoon? We are to be at the Durands' at five, remember. Don't you -dare to tell me you must be excused, for I have simply set my heart on -having you with me." - -But Erskine could not so readily be made to forget his anxieties. He put -off a direct answer to his wife, and followed his mother to her room to -press his inquiries tenderly. - -"Are you sure that you are all right this morning, and that it was only -weariness which kept you so close a prisoner last night? There is -something about you that I don't quite like; there are heavy rings under -your eyes, and you are paler than usual. Did you sleep well?" - -"Not very," she said after a moment's hesitation. "I was--restless." - -He studied her face and spoke with tender reproach. - -"Mommie, something troubles you. Am I not to know it?" - -She had no recourse but to speak truth. - - - - - CHAPTER XIX - - ALONE - - -SHE laid a tender motherly hand on his arm as she said:-- - -"Something has been troubling me, Erskine, something that I cannot -explain, because there is a sense in which it is not my trouble at all, -but has to do with others. For a time I was very much perplexed, but I -have settled it now, what my share in it should be, so that it need not -perplex me any more." - -She knew that the truth was deceiving him, but it satisfied him. He -believed that Mamie Parker's troubles, whatever they were, had been -brought for his mother to share. His face cleared a little, but he felt -it his duty to administer a loving admonition. - -"Remember your one weakness, mamma; there was always in your nature a -temptation to 'bear one another's burdens' too literally. If there is -any way in which I can help without infringing on confidences, you will -let me, of course?" - -She was able to smile as she assured him that she would. Despite her -night of vigil she felt strong. Her part had been revealed to her. She -was to keep Irene's secret, to suffer and to act in her stead; and to -shield her son's name and home as much as lay in her power. A miserable -travesty of a home it looked to her; still, it was all he had, and for a -time at least it could be kept sacred in Erskine's eyes. She had no -faith in a perpetual concealment; such skeletons, she believed, were -always unearthed sooner or later--often in unexpected and mysterious -ways. How remarkable, for instance, it was that, of all the young women -in the world who might have discovered and befriended the deserted child -it should have been their old acquaintance Mamie Parker! Still, this -morning, she could thank God that she need not be the one to unearth -this secret. - -Of course the child must be planned for--there was no danger that Ruth -would forget her--but it had become very clear to her that nothing but -disaster could result from an enforced acknowledgement of her by the -mother at this late day. If Irene wanted her--if her heart had turned -toward her child in the slightest, or, failing in heart, if her -conscience had impelled her to make the least small effort to repair -some of the mischief, then, indeed, Ruth would have braved public -opinion, gossip, Erskine's pain and shame, everything to help her. And -she could do it understandingly. Had not Ruth Erskine, away back in her -girlhood, helped her father in his tardy right-doing? - -It is true that, even at this late day, her face flushed with pain and -shame over the thought of the manner in which she had done this, at -first; still, she had done it. And later, had she not herself taken the -initiative and opened the way for her husband to do his belated duty? -Who could know better than she the cost of such effort? But there was -one infinite difference between past experiences and present problems. -Both her father and her husband, when the crucial test came, had a -foundation of moral strength to build upon; while Irene-- - -Ruth Burnham knew that she had tried very hard to find some lighting up -of the story. She had thoroughly probed Mamie Parker to discover whether -or not through the years the mother had made some sign which proved that -she at least knew of the continued existence of her daughter; but there -had been absolutely no proof that she had ever thought of her six -months' old baby again! Ruth had to turn quickly away from that subject -as one that would not bear dwelling on. The idea that a mother had -actually and deliberately abandoned her baby, roused such a sense of -revolt in this woman's heart that there were times when she told herself -that she could not breathe in the same house with such a creature. - -Miss Parker herself had seemed able to appreciate this feeling. At least -she had given no hint that she expected or hoped anything whatever from -the mother, and frankly owned that she had avoided meeting her on -occasions when there would have been opportunity. She had not felt, she -said simply, that anything could be gained by coming in contact with -her. And all her plea had been that Erskine's mother should in some way -interest herself in the welfare of the lonely girl. - -She was very lonely, now, more so by far than she used to be, Miss -Parker had said in a voice that trembled. Then she had waited a few -minutes to regain self-control before she explained that her mother had -to a very great extent taken the place of mother to the little one. - -"She used to spend her vacations with us," she said, "and mother fell -into the habit of looking after her clothes and her comfort in every -way, just as though she were a daughter; and the child loved mother with -a devotion that is uncommon in one so young. Of course she cannot but -miss her sadly." - -"Have you lately lost your mother?" Ruth had inquired, and her tone had -been so full of tender sympathy that Miss Parker had explained in detail -how it was that she had only her brother left. That was why she was -going out to him, so that they might be together, at least for a time, -since they were all that was left of home. - -Jim had not married; his sister sometimes feared that he never would. -Didn't Mrs. Burnham think that was a calamity for a man? - -"I used to think so," Ruth had replied, as one who did not realize that -she was speaking aloud, and then she had started and flushed over the -thought of what she might thus be revealing; and the flush had deepened -as she remembered what this woman already knew of her son's wife. But -Miss Parker had not once glanced in her direction, and made no sign that -she had heard. She went on, quietly, talking about her brother. Men, she -thought, were different in that respect from women. A woman need never -marry in order to be comfortable, or to be cared for; but there were -ways in which the average man was helpless and almost homeless without -the one woman to care for him, selected from all the world. This was so -different from the usual putting of the subject that Mrs. Burnham had -felt impelled to smile. Yet as she looked at the beautiful woman -opposite her she admitted that her brother's home would certainly be -brightened by her presence. Still, it was a long way to go to make a -home for a brother. - -"Do you have any thought of remaining there," she had asked. "I mean, of -making it a permanent home?" - -Miss Parker did not know. She had not allowed herself to look ahead very -far. There were so many changes in life that it did not seem wise to try -to plan. She should like to remain there, like it very much, she -believed; that is, if she could help in the work. She was sure that she -could help Jim; at least, she could take care of him, and give him more -time to do his work; and Jim was a success. Still, there were times when -she was sorry that she had planned in this way, on Maybelle's account. -Even now, if she could make a change, could delay a little, without -incommoding her brother, she would do so; but Jim had made plans in view -of her coming that would seriously inconvenience him if she did not go. - -Yes, there had been changes, sad changes since her plans were made. Mr. -Somerville, who was a frail man and hopelessly careless of himself, had -contracted a cold, a few months ago, that had settled on his lungs; and -it was now evident to all but that poor little girl that she would, -before long, be fatherless. - -Oh, she would be cared for, no doubt, so far as her body was concerned. -She was at school, and it was a good school, as good, perhaps, as any of -them. At least she, and her mother, had been at infinite pains to -discover it; still, it was school, and not home, and poor Maybelle had -never been quite happy there. The teachers were kind, but cold and -unsympathetic. They did not understand the child, and they almost openly -disapproved of her father. He went every day to see her, but the time -was coming when he would no longer be able to do so, and she dreaded to -think what Maybelle would do when this truth dawned upon her. - -In these and many other ways had Miss Parker made it apparent to Mrs. -Burnham that her hope lay in winning the woman who had been so much to -her, to become this deserted and lonely child's friend and guardian. - -This was the problem therefore which occupied Ruth Burnham's chief -thought for a number of days following Miss Parker's visit. Only one -decision with regard to it had been reached: that she would do what she -could; but what that would be, she was unable to determine. Her way -seemed hedged in with difficulties which had not occurred to her during -those first awful hours. How, for instance, was she, a stranger, with no -claim to other than a stranger's interest that she could press, to -present herself before a young woman who was under the care of her own -father, and beg to be taken as a friend and adviser? - -Then, too, she shrank exceedingly from meeting the father; meeting and -talking with a man who had been Irene's husband! his very presence on -the earth seemed an insult to her son! What explanation could she -possibly make to him as to her interest in his daughter? Would her name -tell him anything? What did he know of the after history of the mother -of his child? If he was acquainted with her present name, might he not -look upon the coming of her husband's mother as an added insult? For, -after all, he was a decent man, decent enough for a woman like Mamie -Parker to acknowledge his acquaintance; and he had done what he could -for his deserted child. She could not even find that he had been -seriously to blame for the child's desertion; therefore he might well -resent this tardy coming to his aid. - -Going back step by step over her interview with Miss Parker, Ruth found -that there were many questions which she had failed to ask; and among -them was this important one as to the father's knowledge of Irene's -present name and home. It seemed almost necessary to wait and write to -Miss Parker before attempting anything. Yet she shrank morbidly from -this; it seemed like opening the whole horror afresh. - -If there were actual need on the part of the girl, such as could be met -by money, her way would have been clearer. But of this she had thought -at once, and Miss Parker had almost dignifiedly declined her help. - -"Dear Mrs. Burnham, I consider it my privilege to look after Maybelle in -all such ways; we have done it for years, mother and I together, and now -it seems almost like her trust to me. It has been a real comfort to see -that the child was provided with such little luxuries of the toilet, for -instance, as I longed for and could not have. We were much straitened in -my girlhood, and I have been living my life over again in this young -girl; though she is much less silly than I was. I must not be deprived -of this privilege, Mrs. Burnham; indeed I have her father's permission -to do for her whatever I think wise; he trusts me fully; and I have no -one else, now, to think about." - -So that avenue seemed closed. Ruth, thinking about it almost irritably -as the complications grew upon her, told herself that it would have been -wiser for Mamie Parker to plan to stay away from China and attend to all -the rest of it; she could do it better than any one else. - -She wrote to Miss Parker at last, a careful letter, re-written several -times lest it tell too much between lines. - -That young woman had evidently taken it for granted that the Burnham -family were supplied with the main facts in this tragedy, and had found -it hard to rally from her astonishment at finding the mother in -ignorance. Ruth knew that she believed that Erskine was not. She longed -to tell her that this was false, yet held her pen. Did not this infringe -upon her solemn covenant with God to shield her daughter-in-law as much -as right would permit? Yet, was it right to let her son's good name be -smirched unnecessarily in the eyes of this woman who had known him in -his spotless youth? - -At last she wrote this:-- - - "Since our interview I have been through a bitter experience - trying to decide as to my duty in certain directions. I believe - now that I have reached a decision, and feel that I am not - called upon to tear down with my own hands the fair home which - my son believes he has begun to build. He is God's own servant, - and God will see to it that he understands all that he must - understand. I believe that I may leave it with Him." - -She waited eagerly for a reply to this letter; it came in the form of a -telegram. - - "I am to sail on Saturday. My poor little girl is alone. Father - buried yesterday. Have written. - "M. M. Parker." - - - - - CHAPTER XX - - THEY HATED MYSTERY - - -MRS. RUTH BURNHAM was settled in a drawing-room car, surrounded by every -comfort and luxury that money and modern ideas can furnish for a long -journey; and her son Erskine stood looking down on her with a face only -half satisfied. - -It occurred to him as a matter of astonishment that, with the single -exception of her one trip homeward, after her ministrations to Alice, -and while he was abroad, his mother had not, since he could remember, -taken a journey without him. And here she was, starting for New York, -and planning for a stay of indefinite length, while he was remaining at -home. He did not wholly like it. - -"It does not seem quite right, mamma," he said, with a smile that had -almost wistfulness in it. "I am not used to seeing you off, you know. It -seems as though I should be going along to look after your comfort." - -"You have already done that, Erskine; I am sure a queen could not be -more carefully provided for." - -"And you have really no idea when you are coming home?" - -"I could not plan for it, dear. Your Aunt Flossy is a woman of many -schemes, you know, and it is long since I visited her; not since you and -I were there together, years ago." - -"It was always 'you and I together,'" he said, discontentedly, as though -he almost resented this sudden independence of him. - -"And this other--person--whoever she is, you will not let her absorb -you? I can see how she will wear you out, without me to manage for you. -She is imperious and selfish, of course." - -His mother smiled on him tenderly, and a little sadly. "How did you -learn that, Erskine?" - -"Oh, by intuition; or common sense. She would not expect an entire -stranger to take a long and tiresome journey in her behalf if she were -not." - -"I don't think she knows anything about the journey, or the stranger, my -son." - -"Then it is all Miss Parker's fault?" and he frowned. "She has not grown -like her brother; not as he used to be, at least. Why doesn't she stay -at home and attend to her own affairs, since they are of so much -importance? That sounds ugly, I know, but I don't like to lend you, -mommie, indeed I don't. You belong to me; and besides, there seems to be -an air of mystery about the whole matter, and I hate mystery; at least -between us." - -It was at that moment that the call of "all aboard" sounded, and Erskine -gave his mother a hasty last kiss and made flying leaps toward the -platform. - -It was a relief to have him go. His mother also hated mystery; and -despite her attempts at frankness, no one was more conscious than she of -the part that she had not told. - -She had shown Erskine the telegram and made at the time the very brief -explanation which it had taken her hours to arrange. - -"It is a protege of Miss Parker's, Erskine, for whom she has bespoken my -sympathy and help. The girl is quite alone, her father has just died; -and since I have been long promising your Aunt Flossy, and they are in -the same city, I think I ought to take this time for my visit." - -"A protege," Erskine had repeated with lifted eyebrows. "A relative? Is -she responsible for her? How can one shift such responsibilities as -that, especially upon a stranger?" - -"She is not related to Miss Parker," his mother had replied, and was -glad that at the moment she had been bending over a drawer, so that her -burning face was partially hidden. If Erskine only knew whose -responsibilities had been shifted! It was that thought which burned her -face. - -"She is not!" he had replied in an exclamatory tone. "Then why in the -name of common sense should she,"--and then, his mother had determined -what she would say further. - -"Erskine,"--her face was still bent over that bureau drawer--"the -peculiar circumstances connected with this child were explained to me by -Miss Parker in confidence, and of course I cannot speak of them; further -than to tell you that she considers the girl as a trust." - -"Well," Erskine had said, after waiting a moment for more words that had -not come, "I don't half like it, mamma. I am sure of that; and if it -were not for your making this long-promised visit to Aunt Flossy, I -should not consent to your going. As it is, rushing off at an hour's -notice, in response to an ordinary telegram, as though somebody had a -right to order you around, seems absurd. I shall write to Aunt Flossy -not to let your heart run away with your judgment. I am really afraid -you are being imposed upon, mamma. Remember, we know nothing about these -Parkers." - -After his mother had watched, with the nervous tremors with which one -watches when all that one has is jumping from a moving train--until -Erskine was lifting his hat to her from safe ground, and her train was -gliding away from him, she drew a deep breath of relief; not only from -that immediate tension, but all the hours which had preceded it. Every -moment since the arrival of that telegram had been a nervous strain to -her, because of the things that she must say, and the things that she -must not say. - -Irene, especially, had taxed her honesty and ingenuity to the utmost. -From the first moment, the young woman had been curious and painstaking -in trying to satisfy herself. - -"The idea!" she would exclaim. "It seems to me that is asking a great -deal of an old woman; and Erskine says this Miss Parker is only a -passing acquaintance. What possible claim can she have on you? Why is -she so interested in this girl? Do you understand it? It looks as though -there was a love affair, somewhere, doesn't it? She is an old maid, of -course. You can depend upon it that she was in love with that girl's -father!" - -There was a side to this woman which Ruth in her secret soul called -coarse. So far as she knew, it was a phase of her character that was -never exhibited to Erskine. - -With her fine regard for truth, and her contempt of anything like -subterfuge, Mrs. Burnham found it hard to satisfy the curious -questioner, and yet keep back that part of the truth which she must not -tell. She could not but be glad when the strain was over. - -Not once had she mentioned the name of the girl. It had been a continual -terror to her lest she should be asked it; but though Irene asked every -possible question that might throw light on the mystery, she had been -mercifully preserved from thinking of names. Mrs. Burnham had learned -from Miss Parker that the first name, Maybelle, would reveal nothing; it -had been chosen by the father for his still nameless child, months after -the mother's desertion; and chosen for no better reason than that Baby -had come in the month of May, and was a "little beauty." But the name of -Somerville might at least have startled Irene, had she heard it; and her -mother-in-law determined that she should not. Having resolved upon -silence as the right course, the more absolute it could be, the better -for all concerned. - -So it was not until the train was fairly under way, speeding eastward at -thirty miles an hour, that Ruth felt free to draw a long breath and rest -her overstrained nerves. Her mind wandered back through the years, lured -there by the thought of Flossy. It was years since they two had been -alone together, but just at this time Flossy's husband had taken a -hurried business trip abroad. - -"It is really providential that I am at home," Flossy had written, in -response to her old friend's letter, telling that she might soon visit -her. "Evan wanted me to go with him, brief as his stay is to be; and I -should have done so, but for the illness of a very dear friend who -seemed to need me; to think that if I had gone, I might have missed -you!" - -Dear Flossy! what a rarely wise little woman she had become! astonishing -them all, not by her sweetness,--they had always been sure of that,--but -by her strength and skill as a Christian worker. No young woman left to -herself in a dangerous world could have a safer, more helpful friend -than Flossy Shipley Roberts. Yet Ruth, even as she thought this -comforting thought, remembered that the duty thrust upon her of guarding -the hateful secrets of others must prevent her from speaking plainly -even to Flossy. - -However, she found reticence with Flossy easier than it had been with -Irene. Joyfully glad to get possession of her old friend was Mrs. -Roberts, and athrob with eagerness to hear all that she had to tell her, -and sympathetic about the minutest details; yet in nothing did she show -her perfect breeding and rare tact more distinctly than in the questions -that she did not ask, concerning things that Ruth did not choose to -tell. - -She told very little. - -"You know, Flossy, I have been planning to come to you for a long, long -time." - -"I certainly do!" interrupted Flossy, with an air that obliged Ruth to -stop and laugh. - -"But the reason I am here just at this time is because a protege of my -friend--the young woman who sailed last week for China--has just lost -her father and is alone in this great city, so far as relatives or very -close friends are concerned, and I am commissioned to try to comfort -her." - -"And I know, dear Ruth, how certainly you will succeed," was Mrs. -Roberts's comment and her only one. - -A little later she asked: "Where do you find your charge, Ruth? Is she a -young girl, did you say? Delightful! I hope you will let me help? Oh, -no, I must not go with you on your first visit, of course. One new face -at a time is enough for the poor child to meet." - -Ruth blessed her in her heart for the delicate reserve which would not -let her question even about the woman who had gone to China. After -Irene's baldly put inference she shrank from trying to explain Miss -Parker's interest in the girl. - -It was on the morning after her arrival in town that Mrs. Burnham sat -waiting in the reception room of a dignified, many-storied house, which, -she told herself, had everywhere about it the unmistakable -boarding-school air. - -She had sent up her card, but was uncertain how much it would tell, or -whether she should be allowed to see the person on whom she had called. -As matters had turned out it seemed unfortunate that she had so long -delayed her visit to Mrs. Roberts. If she could have been introduced -here by Miss Parker in person, it might have been better for all -concerned. As it was, she felt strangely out of place and embarrassed. -She had not been able to decide just how she would account for her -extreme interest in this stranger. It was especially embarrassing to -remember that she must account for it even to the girl herself. While -she waited, she went back in memory to that other waiting, in a -boarding-house parlor, when she had called to see Mamie Parker. What -eventful years had intervened, and what changes they had wrought! How -mistaken she, Ruth Burnham, had been about many things, notably her -estimate of Mamie Parker. Had she been able with prophetic insight to -get a vision of the woman Mamie was to be, would it have made a -difference, a radical difference with all their lives? Then she flushed -to her temples as she remembered that such thoughts were almost an -insult to her son. - -Just then the door opened and there entered Madame Sternheim, the head -of the "Young Ladies' Fashionable School." - -Madame Sternheim was dignified and correct in every movement and word, -and was as cold as ice. - -Yes, Miss Somerville was with them, of course. Her poor father had left -her in their charge, and a serious responsibility she found it. Oh, yes, -Miss Parker, before she left, had spoken of some one by the name of--of -Burnham--she referred to the card which she held in her hand--who might -write, or be heard from in some way. She seemed not to be at all sure -that any one would call. - -Yes, certainly, the circumstances were peculiar and had been all the -time. The poor father--it was by no means a pleasant thing to have to -speak plainly of the dead, but it was sometimes necessary, and perhaps -Mrs.--yes, thank you, Mrs. Burnham, knew that he was not in every -respect the fit guardian for a young woman? - -Oh, yes, Miss Parker had been most kind, most attentive; Miss Somerville -owed her a deep debt of gratitude, certainly. - -It seemed a strange--"Providence--shall we call it?" that took Miss -Parker away to China at just the time when it would appear that her -self-assumed charge needed her the most. She, Madame Sternheim, had -never professed to understand the situation. Miss Parker, she believed, -was not even remotely related to the girl, not even a relative of the -relatives--was she? Yet her interest in the child and her father had -been unaccountably deep. There had always seemed to her to be an air of -mystery about the whole matter. Madame Sternheim did not like mystery; -in fact she might say that she shrank from it. Did Mrs. Burnham -understand that Miss Parker knew personally any of the family -connection? - -Ruth was angry with herself that she must blush and almost stammer over -so simple a question. - -No, that was what Madame Sternheim had been led to infer. The relatives -were all in England, were they not? It seemed strange that the girl was -not to go out to them; but then, her poor father--Had Mrs. Burnham been -personally acquainted with the father? Well, she knew of him probably? -which was perhaps quite enough. Miss Parker's unaccountable interest in -him was beyond understanding, until one remembered that no one could -tell on what the human heart would anchor, especially a woman's heart. -She had never thought that Mr. Somerville was especially--but then he, -poor man, was gone; they need not speak of such things now. And Miss -Parker, too, was gone--to China! That was unaccountable. If love for the -girl had been what had prompted her attentions all these years, why, the -poor child was doubly in need of it now. She had been deeply attached to -her father despite the fact that-- - -"Ah," Madame Sternheim broke off quickly, as the door slowly opened, to -say:-- - -"Here she is, Mrs. Burnham, to speak for herself." - - - - - CHAPTER XXI - - "A STUDY" - - -A TALL, pale girl with delicate features and great brown eyes and a -wealth of gold-brown hair. - -"A study in black and white," was the phrase that floated through Ruth's -mind as she looked at her. The girl was in deep mourning unrelieved even -by a touch of white, and her face was intensely pale. Yet there was -something about her, a nameless something, that claimed instant -interest, and Mrs. Burnham, who, ever since she had heard of the girl's -existence, had been struggling with an unreasonable desire to hate her, -felt instantly drawn toward her. She felt rather than realized that, -whatever might have been Irene's appearance in girlhood, the two had -nothing in common now, for her eyes. - -"I have heard your name," the pale girl said, much as she might have -addressed a book agent, "but I did not know that you were coming to New -York." - -"My dear," broke in Madame Sternheim, reproof in her tone, "I am sure it -is very kind in Mrs.--yes, Mrs. Burnham to take all this trouble for -your sake. She tells me that she is not related to you in any way, and -it is certainly quite unusual for strangers to be so kind." - -"It is very kind," the girl said coldly, and stood irresolute apparently -as to what she should do or say next; while Ruth, sorry for her and for -herself and unreasonably annoyed with Madame Sternheim, was at a loss -how to proceed. - -The Madame came to her aid, addressing the young girl. - -"Do be seated, my dear, and make yourself at least look comfortable." -There was a strong emphasis laid upon the word "look" and the reproof in -the tone was still marked, as she continued:-- - -"Mrs. Burnham will naturally want to have a talk with you, and learn -what little you may be able to explain to her about this sad matter, -although I am too fully aware that it will be very unsatisfactory." Then -she turned to Ruth. - -"With your permission, dear madam, I will retire and leave my charge in -your care for the present. I assure you it is a great relief to me to -find that there is some one willing to share with me this heavy -responsibility." - -The girl turned at this, and with slow, languid steps preceded the -Madame to the door, which she held open for her to pass, and bowed -respectfully as she did so. Then, waiting until a turn in the hall hid -the lady from sight she carefully closed the door. - -Ruth, meantime, was watching her with a half-terrified fascination. She -was so calm, so self-possessed, so utterly without feeling of any sort, -apparently. What was to be said to her? and what good could come in any -way from that which now began to look like interference? She was not in -the least prepared for the sudden change which the closing of that door -seemed to make. - -The girl turned with an impetuous movement and seemed to fly, rather -than walk, over the space between them, and, flinging herself in a -crushed little heap in front of her guest, hid her face on Mrs. -Burnham's lap and burst into a passion of weeping. - -"Poor little girl!" Ruth said softly, and laid her hand tenderly on the -bowed head. There seemed no other word that could be spoken until the -storm of weeping had in a degree subsided. - -"Oh, do forgive me!" the child said, after a minute, but without raising -her head. "I did not mean to cry, I meant to control myself; I thought I -could, through it all, but I am so wretched! and she--she freezes me! -she wants me to be resigned, and to remember how much better off I am -than some other girls who have no one to look after them, and it doesn't -help me one bit. I am so glad that you have come! You are Aunt Mamie's -friend, so you can't be like Madame Sternheim; and you won't tell me -that Aunt Mamie isn't related to me in the most distant degree and in -the nature of things cannot be, will you? I can see that you are not -like the Madame the least bit in the world, and I am glad, _glad_! Oh! I -am a very wicked girl! I ought not to have said that; she is good, she -is _very_ good; and she is patient with my faults and follies; and -yet--there are times when I almost hate her! Oh, dear! what will you -think of me? I don't act like this very often; I don't cry often--I -don't cry at all! but now I must, or I shall die!" - -Then followed another outburst of passionate weeping. - -"Cry as much as you want to, dear child," Ruth said. "It is only -natural, and will do you good." - -All the time her hand was moving over the tumbled masses of hair, making -quiet, soothing passes. - -After a little the girl sat up and brushed away the tears. "I can't -think what made me," she said. "Only you reminded me of Aunt -Mamie, and then--it all came back. I don't know what I am to do; -it seems to me that I cannot live without her, but I have got to; -and without--everybody. It does seem sometimes as though there was never -another girl in the world so utterly alone; but Madame Sternheim says -there are, hundreds of them, even in this city! I am so sorry for them -all! I wish they could die and go to heaven. I wish I could, with papa. -But Madame Sternheim says--" she stopped abruptly and struggled for -self-control, and spoke almost fiercely. - -"I won't tell you what she says about my father, nor think about it. It -isn't true, and if it were, she--" - -Ruth felt a curious feeling of indignation rising against Mamie Parker. -How could she have deserted this child? so soon, at least, after her -bereavement? Surely she needed her more than the brother did, who had -been alone for years! Then came a great gust of shame and shook her -heart. Why should Mamie Parker, a stranger, be expected to show -compassion for this lonely girl when her own family, her own mother--But -that would not bear thinking about. - -"Poor little girl!" she said again, with infinite tenderness. "Will you -take me for a friend? I will do the best I can to be a true one." - -"Oh, thank you," the child said impulsively. "I am so glad, _so glad_ -for you! and only last night I thought I could never be glad about -anything again! Aunt Mamie had to go, of course, at the time appointed. -It isn't like other journeys, you know; they have to sail when they are -told; missionaries do, I mean. That is,--oh, you understand. But Aunt -Mamie felt very badly about leaving me; and she said she thought you -would love me; but of course I couldn't see why you should. It isn't -that I am not cared for, Mrs. Burnham. I have been with Madame Sternheim -for six years and I am sure that I have every care and attention that a -girl possibly could; she has always made that plain to me; but--She did -not like papa, Mrs. Burnham. She never did; and she--almost spoke -against him, even to me! Could a girl ever care very much for one who -talked and felt as she did about the dearest, kindest, most loving papa -that ever lived? oh!" - -She clenched her hands, and the tears threatened to choke her; but she -put them back with a strong will, and even faintly smiled. - -"I shall not cry again," she said. "Madame thinks it is wicked. Mrs. -Burnham, I wish you could have known my papa. He was--I mean he was -not--oh, I don't know how to say it; and I am not sure that I want to -say it, ever. He was good to me always; a girl like me couldn't have had -a better father; and I don't know how to live in this world without him. -It kills me to have to stay all the time among people who say always; -'Your poor father!' and shake their heads and look as though they could -say volumes of ugly things about him if they chose. They shall not! I -will not have people talking about my father! the dearest, the best! a -great deal better than the self-righteous creatures made of icicles that -they admire!" - -Ruth was amazed at the suppressed fury of her tones, and at her eyes -which, but a moment before dim with weeping, now blazed with -indignation. Evidently the child had passed through a severe mental -strain. - -"Don't, dear," she said gently. "No one could be so cruel as to want to -speak against your father. I am glad you love him so dearly; he can -always help you. You will not want to disappoint him in any way, you -know." - -The girl looked at her searchingly as one startled. This was evidently a -new thought; it took hold of her heart. A softened light came into her -unusually expressive eyes and after a moment she said very gently:-- - -"No one ever said anything to me like that, before. It helps." - -They made great strides toward intimacy even in that first morning. So -great that when Ruth, pitying the girl's loneliness and evident dread of -the people by whom she was surrounded, proposed that she send for her to -come and take dinner with Mrs. Roberts and herself, she caught at the -suggestion with an eagerness which showed what a relief it was to her; -and then almost immediately demurred. - -"But I ought not to presume in that way. I am certain the Madame will -think so. Will not your friend think it very strange in me, a stranger, -to intrude upon her home?" - -"Wait until you see her," Ruth said, smiling. "Mrs. Roberts and I are -very old friends, and I am almost as much at home in her house as I am -in my own." - -As she spoke, she felt a sudden stricture at her heart over those -commonplace words. Was she not in these later days almost more at home -in Flossy's house than in her own? - -But Maybelle's face had gloomed over. - -"I think I must not go, Mrs. Burnham," she said. "I suppose I ought not -to wish, or even be willing to go; I am sure Madame Sternheim will be -shocked at the idea. I am in deep mourning, you know, and my loss is so -recent." - -Unconsciously the child had imitated the prim decorum of her Mentor, and -it had changed her entire face. - -Ruth leaned forward impulsively and kissed her, while she spoke with a -smile:-- - -"Dear child, be yourself, and not Madame Sternheim. Adopt me, will you, -and let me attend to the decorum part, and all the rest. Mrs. Roberts is -quite alone, save for me; her husband is away on a business trip, and -her children have scattered for the vacation; so we shall be very quiet, -we three; and there is no reason in the world why you should not come to -us. I want you to know Mrs. Roberts; she is anxious to see you, and -would have come with me this morning, if she had not thought it better -that you and I should make each other's acquaintance first. As for you, -you will love her the first time you look at her. Shall I speak to -Madame Sternheim myself about it?" - -When this was done, Madame Sternheim was discovered to be graciousness -itself. She might be doubtful as to Mrs. Burnham's place in the world, -her knowledge of people being limited and very local, but the name of -Mrs. Evan Roberts called for instant approval, and to know that Mrs. -Burnham was her friend and guest was sufficient passport for her. It was -very kind and thoughtful in dear Mrs. Roberts, she was sure, to send for -the poor child; and very like her too, if all that the Madame had heard -concerning her was true. Did Mrs. Burnham know that her friend had the -name of always doing the most delicate kindnesses that no one else would -have thought of? She was really a wonderful woman? Madame Sternheim had -long wanted to know her. They need not trouble to send the dear child -home, she herself was going out this evening, and would have pleasure in -calling for Miss Somerville at ten o'clock. - -"Isn't it beautiful here?" Maybelle said, a few hours later, as she sank -among the cushions of a "Sleepy Hollow" and feasted her beauty-loving -eyes on the harmonies of Mrs. Roberts's living-room. "It is like a poem, -or no, a picture; that is what it is like, Mrs. Burnham; one of papa's -pictures. How he would have loved this room! He was always making -sketches of sweet, dear, home rooms, and there was always a beautiful -mother in them with a baby in her arms. I think my mother must have been -very beautiful, for it was always the same face, and I know it was -intended for mamma, though he never told me so; I could not talk with -papa about her, ever, it made him cry. Don't you think it is dreadful to -see a man cry? When I started the tears in his dear blue eyes, I always -felt like a wretch! and for that reason I gave up trying to say anything -about mamma, though I should so love to have heard every little thing -about her. Papa must simply have adored her, but I have had to dream her -out for myself. I have spent hours and hours over it, studying papa's -sketches, you know, and trying to clothe them with flesh. I believe I -know just how she looked. Sometimes she would grow so real to me that I -almost expected her to hold out her arms and clasp me to them. I was a -wee baby, you know, when mamma went away." - - - - - CHAPTER XXII - - A LOYAL HEART - - -THE friendship so strangely started between Mrs. Burnham and the girl -thrust upon her conscience, grew apace. As Ruth had surmised, her old -friend Flossy had lost none of her charm with young people, and she won -Maybelle's fascinated interest from the first moment of their meeting; -an interest that developed rapidly into love. - -When Mrs. Roberts's young people came home--an event that Ruth, at -least, had dreaded for Maybelle's sake--it was found that the charm was -increased. Ruth, in writing to Erskine about them, which she did at some -length, had added: "I might have saved you much of this description, by -simply saying that the children are very like their mother. Even -Erskine, tall and muscular as he is, a thorough boy in every sense of -the word, and a manly one, yet has that indefinable indescribable charm -about him that our little Flossy always had and always will have, should -she live to be a hundred, bless her! what a blessing she would be to -this old world if she should. Do you realize, dear, that he is your -namesake, as well as mine? At first I was not sure that I wanted another -Erskine,--there is but one to me, you know,--but Erskine Roberts is such -a splendid repetition of the family name that we cannot but be proud of -him." - -But she gave no description of Maybelle, and mentioned her name as -little as possible. She shrank almost painfully from the thought of -writing about this girl to one who ought to be deeply interested in -her,--as in the nature of the case Erskine should be if he knew,--and -yet looked upon her as an intruder, almost resenting his mother's -efforts in her behalf. - -But if she kept silence about her to Erskine, she atoned for it in the -amount of time and thought that she bestowed upon the child. As the -weeks passed and she grew to better understand this child-woman with -whom she had to deal, she found herself bestowing upon her a wealth of -love and tenderness that she had not supposed any but her very own could -call out. And her love was returned in royal measure. However much -Maybelle might admire and love Mrs. Roberts and enjoy her son and -daughters, she had given the wealth of her heart unreservedly to Mrs. -Burnham. "Next to Aunt Mamie I love you best of all the world," she -would declare as she patted Ruth's shoulder with a loving little touch -that was peculiarly her own. "It ought always to be Aunt Mamie first, -you know, because she--she _mothered_ me all those years when I was -hungry for a mother. Dear Mrs. Burnham, if she were your daughter and I -could be your granddaughter, would not that be perfect? But that -couldn't be, of course, for Aunt Mamie loved her own dear mother better -than any other mother in the world; and she was a _dear_; I loved her -very much, but--how many different kinds of love there can be in the -same heart!" she broke off to say, with the air of a dreamy philosopher, -"Different kinds of loves and different kinds of unloves, ever so many -of them! the heart is a curious country, isn't it?" - -By that time Mrs. Burnham had come to understand Miss Parker's absorbed -interest in the girl, which continued unabated even amid the absorbing -interests of a strange land. She wrote long loving letters to the child -of her adoption, and long earnest ones to Mrs. Burnham about her. - -"There have been times," she wrote, "when I have almost regretted that I -left the dear girl all alone and came away out here where weeks must -intervene before I can hear from her. I felt this especially after I -found that my brother, although very glad indeed to welcome me, had made -interests here about which I knew nothing, one that is to help make a -home for him in the near future, so that so far as care and -companionship are concerned he could have done very well without me. -When I first began to understand the situation here, I was puzzled, and -just a little bit troubled over the question why I had been allowed to -come, or rather left to think that to come was the only right course, -when apparently I was much more needed at home on that dear child's -account, than here. But after reading Maybelle's letter I understood -that it was in order to leave the way clear and plain for her to your -dear heart; you can do so much more for her than I can ever hope to. -How blissful the darling is over her new friendships and interests! I am -glad that you have kidnapped her loyal little heart, just as I knew you -would." - -"Poor girl!" Mrs. Burnham said softly to herself after reading this -letter. "She has one of those hungry hearts that Maybelle talks about; -and she fancied that her brother could fill it, instead of being quite -satisfied with his generous corner of it! I wonder if it can be possible -that she cared for the child's father, as the Madame hints? That would -account for--but there is nothing to be accounted for; one could not -help loving Maybelle. I must tell Miss Parker that she is always to have -the first place in that 'curious' heart, while I am enthroned as second. -Dear simpleton!" Then, as the thought crossed her mind, not for the -first time, that the one who should hold that first place might be named -Erskine, the uneasy conviction shook her that in such event certain ugly -truths would have to be revealed. - -But she put the thought from her as soon as possible. She could not plan -for the future, and for the present, Maybelle and Erskine Roberts were -simply comrades heartily enjoying each other's society, as her own -Erskine and Alice Warder had done, without apparently other thoughts -than those shared with them by Marian Roberts, who was Erskine's twin. - -Ruth wrote to Miss Parker that same evening, giving her a detailed -account of one of her talks with Maybelle. - -"You may well call hers a 'loyal heart,' my friend," she wrote. "You -should hear the pathetic way in which the child talks about you by the -hour! Yesterday she said to me:-- - -"'Sometimes I used to wish that I could call Aunt Mamie, mother. She is -the only woman that I ever had such a thought about; I suppose it was -because she came close enough to give me an idea of what a real mother -would be. I mean to keep her always for my heart-mother. There can be -heart-mothers, you know, and in some ways they are almost as dear as -real ones. Oh, I wonder if you know how a girl like me sometimes longs -and _longs_ for a real mother! I think it is the only possession that I -ever envied. Sometimes, Mrs. Burnham, I have been fiercely jealous for -hours together, so that I almost hated the girls who chattered about -their mothers. Wasn't that dreadful! Oh, I cannot think what would have -become of me long before this, if I had not had Aunt Mamie.'" - -Thus much Ruth Burnham wrote, and stayed her pen. Was it necessary for -her to tell all this? To lay bare even to this woman, who knew so much, -the depths of a suffering young heart, thereby revealing the magnitude -of the mother's sin against it? And that mother was her daughter, her -son's wife! She wanted to write it; there were times when she wanted to -shout it out to all the world, just what manner of woman was being -sheltered by her name and home. She knew that she would never do it, but -ought not Mamie Parker who had mothered the child, to understand? She -thought long, she shed a few struggling tears that seemed to burn her -face; the hurt at her heart was too deep for tears, and then she hid her -face on the writing table and talked with God. - -The end of it was that she tore the sheet across and threw the fragments -into her grate. And wrote again:-- - -"You may well call hers a 'loyal heart,' my friend; she loves with a -depth that seems to me unusual in one so young; and she has enthroned -you at her heart's very centre. I want to say, just here, that I do not -think she overestimates what you have done for her; I believe you have -saved her to herself." - -Meanwhile, the days that Mrs. Burnham, without any definite planning, -had thought might be given to her visit lengthened into weeks, and still -she lingered in the East. - -Erskine was astonished, was bewildered, was half indignant, yet she set -no date for the home-going. One reason for this was the fact that Mr. -Roberts's stay abroad, which was to have been very brief, had been much -lengthened by unexpected business complications, and his wife was -begging her old friend to stay with her until his return. But of course -there was no real excuse for this, as she had her children and -multitudes of home friends about her. The real reason was that Ruth -could not decide to leave Maybelle. The girl clung to her with an ever -increasing abandon to the joy of having for her very own one who knew -how to be in every sense of the word motherly. Certainly she was nearer -real happiness than her confused life had ever been before. From being -one whom some of her schoolmates pitied and patronized because she -seemed to have no friends of her own except a somewhat doubtful father, -she became almost an object of envy. - -All of the girls at Madame Sternheim's knew Mrs. Evan Roberts by -reputation; and highly exaggerated stories of her house and her friends -and her lavish expenditures for certain of them, were afloat in the -school. But it chanced that Maybelle was the first one of the school -girls who had entered the charmed circle of Mrs. Roberts's friendships. - -When it became known that she was being sent for three or four times a -week to take dinner with the Roberts family, that she went on Tuesdays -to luncheon, that she spent most of her Saturdays and Sundays in the -same choice home, interest in her comings and goings became marked. -Then, when she began slowly, and almost reluctantly it must be admitted, -to choose out some especially lonely or homesick or timid girl to take -with her to dine at Mrs. Roberts's, her popularity knew no bounds. - -Madame Sternheim, too, during these days was gracious almost beyond -recognition. It was not that the good woman had not meant to be gracious -always; she had been faithful to her duty as she saw it, and poor -Maybelle, who confessed that she had hours of almost hating her, had in -reality very much for which to thank her. - -But Madame Sternheim was very human indeed, and the daughter of a poor -artist father with a questionable past and a doubtful future, whose only -friend, apparently, was a very fine young woman, it is true, but a woman -without family and with no reasonable way of accounting for her interest -in the girl, and nothing to show how soon the interest might cease--for -that matter she had already gone away off to China for no reason in -particular, unless it was to be well rid of her charge now that the -father was gone--was one person, and a girl who had apparently been -adopted into the inner circle of Mrs. Roberts's family was quite -another; especially now that the poor father had been respectably buried -and all doubtful or uncomfortable things could be forgotten. Madame -Sternheim was relieved and pleased and hopeful. She liked to have Mrs. -Roberts's carriage stand before her door waiting for Maybelle. She liked -to say to certain of her patrons:-- - -"Oh, the coachman is used to waiting; our dear Maybelle is almost -certain to be tardy, but then she is so much at home at Mrs. Roberts's -house that she can take all sorts of liberties. Oh, yes, she dines there -several times a week and often takes some of her classmates with her. -Dear Mrs. Roberts welcomes my girls to her home as though she were their -elder sister. What a charming woman she is! Really when one comes to -know her intimately, one feels that the half has not been told -concerning her." - -And Maybelle was blossoming under this reign of love. Her cheeks were -rounding out a little and taking on a touch of color, and her eyes were -growing less sad. She had by no means forgotten her grief nor put aside -the thought of her father. On the contrary, she liked nothing better -than to talk of him by the hour to a sympathetic listener, while to be -allowed to talk about her mother, was to give free vent to the one -pent-up passion of her life. - -It was to Mrs. Burnham that she talked most freely, though Mrs. -Roberts's young people were sympathetic, and Erskine, especially, liked -nothing better than to hear long stories about the artist and his method -of dealing with a picture. - -"He made them up," Maybelle would say, "composed them, you know, or made -a plot, as you do when you write a story for your college paper. The -picture grew, just as a story does. 'That's an idea!' papa would say, -when I was sitting meekly enough beside him, telling him some story of -my day. 'That's a look I never saw before, let me get it, Maysie'--that -was one of his dear names for me, he had dozens of them--and he would -seize palette and brush and work for a few minutes as hard as he could, -then sit back and gaze at me and think, and I knew that a new picture -was born and would have to be watched over and nourished and developed. -It was very interesting." - -"Yes, indeed! he painted me a hundred times and in a hundred different -ways, but they did him no good; he never would try to sell them, nor -even show them. They are all boxed up with our other things and stored; -Aunt Mamie took charge of them. He told her they were never to be sold. -I think it was because my mother's picture was always mixed in with -them, and he could not bear to sell her. He used to make pictures of me, -sometimes, that he said were like mamma. There would be just little -hints of me about them, not a likeness of me at all, but a beautiful -girl, and the tears would come into papa's dear eyes when he looked at -her, and he would say softly, 'It is her image.'" - -When Maybelle talked in this way to Ruth, she once or twice said -wistfully:-- - -"It must be beautiful to be loved in the way that my father loved my -mother." But Erskine Roberts never heard any words of this kind. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII - - PUZZLING QUESTIONS - - -"THIS is lovely!" said Maybelle, as she drew the curtains, and pushed -her sewing chair closer to Mrs. Burnham's. "Isn't it nice to be alone -together? Erskine wanted me to go with them to the rehearsal and act as -prompter, but I told him I was going to follow the promptings of my own -heart and stay with you, especially since his mother must also be away. -If we lived all alone in a dear little home, you and I, I could take -care of you all the time." - -"I am afraid I should need something besides lovely rooms and pretty -sewing," Mrs. Burnham said laughingly. - -"Yes, indeed! but I could do them; all sorts of things. I used to do -things for Mrs. Parker, and for papa when he would let me. I was always -coaxing papa to have a little bit of a house just large enough for us -two, and let me take charge of it; I knew I could; I could learn, you -know, and Mrs. Parker taught me a great many things; but he never would. -Poor papa! he didn't want a home; he said that he had one once, and he -wanted it to live in his memory forever. He meant that time--before -mamma died. Do you think it is like most men to be so constant to a -memory?" - -"I do not know," Mrs. Burnham said, with an effort. She never knew what -to say to Maybelle when she was in this mood. It was impossible to join -in the talk about a dead mother, and not feel herself a hypocrite. But -Maybelle was already on another theme. - -"Dear Mrs. Burnham, I am glad we are alone to-night. There are matters -about which I want to talk with you. - -"Do you know, I have been treated always like a little girl? and it -seems to me that the time has come for me to begin to be a woman. I used -to try to get papa to tell me about his affairs, but he never would. -During those last dreadful days, all he would tell me was that he had -left everything to Aunt Mamie, and I was to do just as she said. But I -have a feeling that papa was poor; and that he just made enough by his -pictures to support us, perhaps not always that; I have thought lately -that perhaps a great many of my nice things and--and opportunities, came -through Aunt Mamie. Madame Sternheim has dropped hints more than once -that have made me believe so. And now,--don't you think I ought to know -all about it, and be making plans to support myself?" - -"My dear!" was all that Ruth could say, in an almost dismayed tone. -Maybelle's future and her connection with it were more puzzling to -Erskine Burnham's mother than they could possibly be to this child. The -earnest young voice went on:-- - -"I wrote to Aunt Mamie just how I felt, but she cannot see it as I do. -She says that she is alone in the world, that money is the only thing -she has enough of, and that papa gave me to her to take care of. She -does not understand why I should not be quite happy over such an -arrangement; but dear Mrs. Burnham, I am sure you do. It is not that I -do not love to belong to her, I mean to, always; and sometimes I cannot -sleep for the joy of thinking that she loves me so dearly; I can't think -why she does. But don't you think that a self-respecting girl wants to -support herself just as soon as she possibly can, unless she has a -father and mother who can do it as well as not, and want to?" - -This also was a sore and embarrassing phase of the subject to poor Ruth. -Oh, to be able to say to her that her mother, her own mother, was in a -position to cover for her every need that money could supply and that -the man who now stood in the place of father to her would insist upon so -much tardy justice--if he knew of her existence! Yet Ruth's common sense -told her that even though there were no terrible reasons for silence for -the sake of others, the hardest blow that could be given to a girl like -Maybelle would be to destroy her beautiful illusions of her mother with -the base truth. That mother of sacred memory, alive, well, living in -ease and luxury and ignoring her as utterly as though she had never been -born! Could such a cruel blow as that be borne! Yet any words that this -much-tried woman could arrange in reply to the appeal just made, seemed -false. She hesitated, and knew that her face was flushing under the -girl's earnest gaze. At last, she said the only words there seemed left -for her to say. - -"My dear, I am a little bit on both sides of this question. I certainly -sympathize with your view, and on general principles should agree with -you. But the circumstances are peculiar this time." And as she said the -words she felt like a hypocrite; how peculiar they were, that poor child -had not the least idea! "Miss Parker is, as she says, practically alone -in the world. Her brother's marriage is a coming event; then he will not -need her any more, in the special sense in which she can help him now, -and he does not need her money, for he has plenty of his own. Their -father discovered a gold mine, you know, as well as one of another -metal, almost more valuable than gold. So, if Miss Parker wants to spend -a little of her surplus money upon you, because she loves you, ought you -not to please her in this, and be governed by her advice, at least for -the present? When you are older, and especially when Miss Parker returns -home, which I think she will do before very long, probably some plans -can be made that will please you both. Cannot you wait, dear?" - -Maybelle sat thoughtful for a moment, then she drew a long sigh. - -"I suppose I must," she said. "Indeed, there is no other way for me at -present; only--I am to graduate, you know, in a few days, and I -thought--but of course I ought not, contrary to Aunt Mamie's wishes. But -I do not know what she wants me to do for the summer. She has not seemed -to remember it. I have always spent the summer vacations with her." - -"You are not to forecast anxieties about the summer," Mrs. Burnham said, -trying to make her voice sound cheery and free from all anxiety, though -it struck her like a physical pain, the fact that she could not say to -this girl who was growing dearer to her with every passing day, "Come -home with me, child, of course;" that she could never invite her to her -home, and could never explain to her why she must not. She must simply -be silent and trust to Maybelle's shrewd guessing that there were -reasons why this new friend of hers did not feel at home in her own -home, and was not at liberty to take her friends there. - -It was true that summer was upon them, and the air of the boarding -school was athrob with the plans of eager girls getting ready for the -home-going. Maybelle was almost the only one who had not some sort of -home to plan for. And yet Maybelle was to graduate! If only Mrs. Burnham -could say to her, "Come, we will make home together, and you may do for -me all that your heart prompts." There were hours when she was tempted -to do something of the kind. But her words to Maybelle revealed none of -her pain. - -"There are lovely schemes maturing for the summer. 'Good times,' my -dear, and unlike the illustrious Gloriana McQuirk you are 'in 'em.' I am -not to divulge them before the appointed hour, but I empower you to say -to those envious schoolgirls that your summer plans are a delicious -secret even from yourself, being locked in the heart of that blessed -little schemer, Mrs. Roberts." - -Maybelle's face was still serious, but, after a moment, she laughed -softly. - -"I am the strangest girl!" she said. "I don't think there can be another -girl in the world who lives my kind of life. I have not what Madame -Sternheim calls a 'relative' this side heaven to care what becomes of -me, and I have the dearest company of people, on whom, according to -Madame again, I have not the shadow of a claim, who never weary of doing -for me! What more, for instance, could you and that dear Mrs. Roberts -and those girls and boys of hers do for me, even though I had that -potent charm, some of 'the same blood' in my veins? And yet, do you -know, selfish creature that I am, the Madame has so instilled her -principles into me that if I only had a sister or brother of my very own -to love and care for, I think I could give up joyfully all other -luxuries." - -"Are you not forgetting your aunts in England, my dear?" - -Maybelle shook her head and spoke resolutely. "I want to forget them; I -do not claim them as aunts of mine." Then, in response to Ruth's look -that might have meant reproach, she added:-- - -"They did not like mamma, Mrs. Burnham, and they were not good to her. -Papa told me as much as that. He said she was young, and away from all -her home friends and unhappy, and they led her a hard life. Papa could -not help feeling hard toward them for that. It was the reason why he -never went to England again after Grandmother died. He took me to see -Grandmother, did you know that? But she did not seem like a grandmother. -She wasn't _dear_, you know, and sweet, like the grandmothers in -stories, and in real life too,--some of the girls at school have lovely -ones,--but mine was stately and cold. She and my two aunts used to talk -about mamma right before me. - -"'She looks like _her_,' one of them said, with a strong emphasis on the -'her' a contemptuous emphasis it seemed to me. And the other aunt -replied, 'But she isn't like her in disposition, apparently.' Then -Grandmother said quickly, 'Heaven forbid!' Could one love people who -talked in that way before a child about her dear dead mother? Not that -they meant me to understand," she added thoughtfully, after a moment, as -one who must do full justice even to one's enemies. "I don't think they -did; they were the kind of people who think that a child is deaf and -blind and stupid. I understood hints and shrugs of the shoulders and -curls of the lip and exclamations a great deal better than they thought -I did. I have no relatives, dear Mrs. Burnham, that I care for, but I -have friends whom I love with every bit of me. May I ask just one little -question?--and you need not answer it if it is part of the secret. Do -the summer plans include you? Because if they don't, and there could be -a way for me to have you for just a little piece of the summer, I--" - -The tremble in her voice had grown so marked that she stopped abruptly. -She looked up, after a minute, with her eyes swimming in tears, and said -with a queer little attempt at a laugh:-- - -"I'm not going to cry, Mrs. Burnham, don't you be afraid. And I'm not -going to be selfish and babyish; I mean to be just as glad and happy and -grateful as I can be, even though you have to be away from me all summer -long." - -It was just at that moment that Ruth resolved upon yielding to Flossy's -entreaties and spending at least part of the summer with them at their -new seaside cottage, which was to be a surprise to all the young people, -Maybelle included. Erskine expected her at home, but what were Erskine's -needs compared to this deserted child's?--and the child clung to her. -But she would not tell Maybelle, not just yet; so she spoke lightly, -commending the child's resolve to count her mercies, and then -admonishing her that she had better also count her stitches, as she was -making a mistake in the row she was crocheting. - -There was a thoughtful silence on the part of both for a few minutes, -then Maybelle spoke again in what Mrs. Burnham called her grown-up tone. - -"There is one strange question I have wanted to ask of somebody for a -long time. I tried to talk to Erskine about it without letting him know -that it was really a question in my mind; but Erskine is like all boys, -very wise and very positive, without being always able to give a reason -for what he believes." - -"Which means," said Ruth, smiling, "that Erskine did not agree with -you." - -"Well, he didn't," and Maybelle stopped to laugh at herself; then spoke -earnestly. - -"That is, so far as I may be said to have an opinion on that subject; I -am not sure what I think, or at least I do not know why I think it. Mrs. -Burnham, do Christian people ever pray for their dead? And if they do -not, why not? Does the Bible say we must not? I have tried to find -something in the Bible about it, and I could not." - -Ruth was much startled. This was very different from the question she -had expected. The young people argued vigorously upon every live -question of the day, not excepting interesting theological points, but -this was out of the regular line. While she considered just how best to -answer it, Maybelle explained. - -"I suppose that seems to you a strange question; young people do not -often discuss such things, I suppose; but it interests me very much -because I have such a longing, sometimes, to pray for mamma, that I can -hardly keep her name from my lips; yet I thought perhaps it was wrong. I -began to have that feeling almost as soon as Aunt Mamie taught me to -pray. I had said my prayers before that time; papa taught me to say: -'Now I lay me down to sleep,' and 'Bless thy little lamb to-night.' I -used to like to say them, but I did not understand what praying really -was, until long after that time. But when Aunt Mamie made it plain to -me, and my heart took hold of the fact that I was really talking with -God, and that I could talk to Him about papa, and in that way help him, -I cannot tell you how glad I was! And then, very soon, I wanted to put -mamma in." - -Nothing that the girl had said had ever startled Ruth as much as this. -Was there a woman living who needed prayer more than this child's -mother? Yet how could she counsel her daughter to pray for her? - - - - - CHAPTER XXIV - - AN ALLY - - -"I DO not know that there is any 'thus saith the Lord,' against your -wish, my dear," she said at last, in a hesitating tone, "but the -inference from all gospel teaching seems to be that this life is the -time for prayer." - -Maybelle gave a disappointed sigh. - -"I should think people would study into it," she said, "and find out if -they might. It makes such an awful blank in one's praying to suddenly -leave out a name that has been on one's lips and in one's heart for -years." - -Then Ruth knew that the child was thinking of her father, and that she -must move very carefully in trying to comfort her. - -"I did not have that feeling about my father, Maybelle dear, nor about -my husband. On the contrary I had an almost joyful realization that they -were beyond the need for prayer--were where they could make no mistakes, -where the mistakes of others could never harm them any more, and where -they would be forever in the presence of the Lord. What could one -possibly ask more for them?" - -Maybelle was silent for several minutes, and her eyes were soft with -unshed tears. Then she spoke gently:-- - -"What a lovely thought! thank you." - -After a moment she began again, earnestly. - -"Mrs. Burnham, there is something I want you to know. What I am sure -that Madame Sternheim thinks about my papa isn't true. Papa learned how -to pray; and every afternoon during those last few weeks, he and I used -to read in the Bible together, and pray. And the last time I saw him he -told me that, although he had wasted his life, and been in every way a -different man from what he ought to have been, God had forgiven him, and -was going to take him home. He wasn't a bad man, ever, Mrs. Burnham; at -least--well, I know he did some wrong things, but he was good in many -ways. He had a very low estimate of himself, though, and those were the -words he said. I shall never forget the last sentence he ever spoke; I -can often close my eyes and seem to hear his dear voice with its note of -exultation, 'It is wonderful, but I am going _home_!' He used to speak -that word 'home' in a peculiar manner; his voice seemed to linger over -it lovingly, like a caress. He had no home, you know, after mamma went -away." - -This was Maybelle's way of speaking of death; but the woman, who -realized how literally the phrase "went away" applied to this child's -mother, could never hear it without an inward shudder. Her own eyes had -dimmed with tears as she listened to this pathetic and yet gracious -close of a wasted life. Then she acted upon a sudden resolution. - -"Maybelle, dear, there is one person for whom I want you to pray with -all your soul; that is my son's wife." - -"Your daughter?" said Maybelle, lingering over the word as a sweet -sound, yet with a hint of surprise in her tone, as though she might -almost ask, "Why should any woman so blessed as she need praying for?" -But what she added was:-- - -"I should love to pray for her. Tell me about her, please. She must be a -very happy woman to have the right to call you 'mother.' What is it you -want me to ask for her? Of course she is a Christian?" - -"She is a member of the church," said Ruth. "But I do not think she -knows the Lord Jesus in the way that you and I know Him, or that she -loves and serves Him." - -"Oh!" said Maybelle, and that single mono-syllable from her lips meant -much. Surprise, regret, pity, resolve, were all expressed in it. - -Ruth made haste to finish what she had resolved to say. - -"And she needs to know Him; oh! she needs it more than most women do. If -she could come, even now, into intimate fellowship with the Lord Jesus -Christ, it would make an infinite difference, not only with her life, -but in the lives of others. There are others who--" She stopped -abruptly; excitement was getting the better of discretion. She must have -a care what she said. After a moment she spoke with less intensity. - -"I hope you will pray, too, for Erskine. For my son, I mean." For -Maybelle had made a little startled movement at the mention of this -name, and turned great wondering eyes upon her. - -"My son's name is Erskine, you remember. He is my only one, dear, the -only treasure that I ever had; for years and years he has been all that -I have; and I cry out so for God's best for him! He is a Christian, a -good, true Christian man; he is everything that to other people seems -desirable; but--" - -"I think I know what you mean," Maybelle said gently. "I know that there -can be degrees in living religion. Sometimes I think I know that fact -better than any other; I have had so many illustrations of it in my -life. It must be hard for him that his wife does not always think just -as he does in this. At least I should think it would be very hard indeed -for married people not to be as one in such matters." - -"Yes," said Ruth, "it is very hard." Then she turned suddenly to a -radically different subject, with the conviction strong upon her that -she could talk no more about Erskine and Irene without saying what would -be better left unsaid. - -But she had secured a wonderful ally in Maybelle. The girl knew how to -pray, and her faith was as the faith of a little child: simple, and -literal, and firm. She became intensely interested in Mrs. Burnham's -daughter-in-law. She asked many questions about her, sometimes making -remarks, in her ignorance, that wrung Ruth's heart. - -"I think I love her," she said one day. "There are times when I feel a -curious yearning tenderness for her, as though I must put my arms about -her and kiss her. It seems strange, doesn't it, when I have never seen -her? I do not love a great many people; of course I like ever so many, -but this feeling that I have is different. Still, I suppose it is the -way one feels toward those for whom one prays, definitely and daily. -Isn't it?" - -"Perhaps," said Ruth, unable to add another word, and turning away her -face so that the child could not see what it might express. If only -Irene had loved _her_! - -One noticeable feature of this time was that Maybelle began to speak -confidently regarding the answer to her prayers. - -"You will tell me when your daughter truly begins to serve Jesus Christ, -won't you?" she said. "I think I should like to know it, soon, because -it changes the tone of one's prayers, don't you think, as soon as one -for whom you have been asking just this, recognizes Jesus Christ and -begins to be acquainted with Him?" - -"You speak very confidently, dear," Ruth could not help saying. "Do you -always feel quite sure that the people for whom you pray will -'recognize' Jesus Christ?" - -"Not always," the girl said thoughtfully. "I cannot be sure, because -they may keep on refusing to let Him in, and of course He will not force -an entrance. When I was a little girl, I thought that was very strange. -I wondered why God did not _make_ people love and serve Him, whether -they wanted to, or not. But when I grew old enough to realize what love -really is, I knew better; for what is enforced service worth? and as for -enforced _love_, that couldn't be. But sometimes the feeling comes to me -that the one for whom I am asking, will let him in; and I have it now." - -And then Mrs. Burnham began to desire exceedingly that this girl should -pray mightily for her son. More than all things else, more even than -that the rags of his outward respectability--as regarded his home--might -be preserved to him, did she long for his entire consecration to God. -She knew only too well that, despite his strict integrity and his firm -adherence to the letter of his faith, the world was gripping him with a -mighty hold. She knew, too, how insidiously and how surely Irene's -views, and Irene's feelings, and Irene's wishes were slipping in between -him and that entirely consecrated life which would hold him safe above -all the world's allurements. - -It was not that he was markedly different in word or deed from what his -early manhood had promised. It was rather that he had not grown, -spiritually, with the passing years; and of late years, since his -marriage, his mother could detect a backward movement, as of one -drifting downstream imperceptibly to himself, and losing force. There -were times when she felt almost jealous of the hold which her -daughter-in-law had taken upon the heart of this girl who believed as -well as prayed. - -"You will not forget my Erskine?" she said one day when they had been -talking about it. - -"Oh, no!" Maybelle said quickly. "No, indeed! How could I, dear Mrs. -Burnham, when he is your son, and you asked me to pray for him? I never -forget him; but after all, it isn't so important, you know." - -"Why not?" The mother was almost indignant. From her standpoint nothing -in life seemed quite so important as that Erskine should be the kind of -Christian that the Lord wanted. - -"Why, because," said the child, wonderingly, "he _belongs_, you know, -and--won't the dear Lord take care of his own? But it is different with -her,--why, she may not let Him!" - -There was the most peculiar emphasis of that word "belongs"; and almost -infinite dismay expressed by the last phrase. Maybelle was a literalist. -She believed that when the Lord said, "Ye _will not_ come unto me that -ye might have life," he meant that it was quite within man's power to -refuse it. - -But from that hour Ruth's heart was quieter concerning her son, and she -prayed in stronger faith. Erskine "belonged" and she could trust the -Lord to take care of His own. It seemed strange, but the child was -really helping the Christian of mature years. "Except ye become as -little children," she repeated to her heart with a grateful smile. -Maybelle's faith was as the faith of a little child; that was what made -it so strong. - -The plans for the summer matured and, to the joy of all concerned, Mrs. -Burnham was carried a willing captive to the new seaside home; and, on -one pretext or another, lingered there from week to week. The young -people were fertile in schemes, and vied with one another in pretexts to -hold her just a few days more. - -"You cannot surely go until after the fourteenth!" and "Why, we must -have you for the twenty-first, anyway!" - -Meantime, Erskine was growing almost indignant, at least on paper. His -final argument was put with lawyer-like directness. - -"It seems to be true that you have ceased to care for your son, but -perhaps the advent of your grandson will move you. Erskine Burnham, -Junior, arrived at four this morning, as I have already announced to you -by telegram, and is in excellent health and spirits, and very desirous -of beholding the face of his grandmother; I might remark, in passing, -that his father and mother sympathize with him in this desire, save that -the cruel grandmother seems to be quite dead to all natural affection. -We are hoping that to have a grandson will be something so unnatural as -to arouse her desires for home." - -But if he could have seen his mother during that first hour after the -despatch reached her, he would have been deeply pained as well as -puzzled. Did ever grandmother take such triumphant news in such strange -fashion before? She was alone in her room, and she let the paper drop -away from her while she hid her face in her hands and shook as though in -an ague chill. Her grandson! yes, but Irene's son! born of such a mother -into this dangerous, sin-stricken world! to be trained by such a mother! -and her fair and lovely daughter an outlaw at this moment from her -mother's home and heart! How would it be possible for a boy with such an -inheritance as such a mother would give him, to escape the snares that -would assuredly be set for him? Great waves of pain seemed to have this -woman in its clutches, as she lived over again her own young motherhood, -and thought of all that it had meant to her, and contrasted herself with -that other mother; and remembered that she was the mother of Erskine -Burnham's son. - -But by degrees saner thoughts began to come. Heredity was not -everything, she reminded herself; and even according to it its full -place, had not the boy a father? The thought of Maybelle in this -connection helped to quiet her. Was ever sweeter, purer, more lovable -girl born of woman than she? And was not that same woman her mother? -What of heredity here? - -But the girl was deserted by her mother, and mercifully preserved from -such training as she would have given. What was that promise? "When my -father and mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up." Had not -the Lord made good this word? If only this little new boy, her grandson, -could--And then Ruth turned in stern repellence from herself. What was -this that she was thinking! Could not God take care of his own? - -But she must go home, of course she must go home now, at once. But she -did not. One of Mrs. Roberts's flock fell ill, and before noon of the -following day was very seriously, even desperately ill, and there -followed a long, hard battle with disease; and Ruth, who had lingered -for her pleasure, apparently, could not of course leave them now, when -for the first time there was opportunity to be of real service. The sick -one, even after the battle was fought, was slow in convalescing, and the -mother was worn, and Ruth could see that she held a place in this home -that no one else just then could fill, and she stayed. - -So it came to pass that the summer was gone, and the Roberts household -was established in town again, and Maybelle was entered at Madame -Sternheim's for a year of graduate work, before the Burnham carriage -waited at the station for the belated grandmother, and her son paced the -station platform more eager and impatient for his mother than it seemed -to him he had ever been in his life before, and his son was two months -old that day. - - - - - CHAPTER XXV - - A CRISIS - - -"DO you think I will ever let you go away from us again?" This was -Erskine Burnham's word to his mother when he had her all to himself in -the carriage. His arms were about her, and he was kissing eyes and nose -and hair after the fashion of his childhood. - -"Such a wicked, wicked grandmother! Does she think she deserves the most -beautiful, most intelligent grandson that ever drew breath?" - -Throughout that drive they were very gay; both of them covered under the -semblance of merrymaking, the deep feeling that neither wished just then -to express. - -Only once, as the carriage turned in at the familiar gateway, did -Erskine trust himself to a tender word:-- - -"O mommie, mommie! do you suppose you know anything about how a boy -feels to get his mother again?" - -"My boy!" she began, but her voice broke, and she could not utter -another word. And then the carriage drew up before the side entrance, -and Erskine became very busy with the bags and wraps, and believed that -his mother's emotion was the natural feeling of a grandmother on coming -into her possession. - -The weeks that immediately followed were very far from happy ones, -although one member of the family circle was doing her utmost in the -interests of peace. - -Ruth Burnham had not lingered for months away from her home simply from -dread of facing the situation; nor yet on account entirely of the young -girl whom she had taken to her heart; there had been underneath these, a -determined purpose to leave those two quite to themselves; to try the -effect upon Irene of relieving her for a time of her mother-in-law's -daily presence. It is true she had not planned just how long she could -do this--she had not been sure when she went away that it could be done, -save for a few days; but she had allowed herself to be apparently swayed -by every passing reason for delay, despite Erskine's evident -bewilderment over such action, with an end in view which had to do with -that solemn self-sacrifice she had made. It remained to be seen whether -this phase of it had been of any avail. - -At first, Irene was gracious, or tried to be; but in all her apparent -sweetness, and sometimes even attempts at deference, there was a curious -little undertone sting, which made Ruth feel constrained, and always -uncertain what to say or do next. - -But the baby, toward whom her sore heart turned with a hunger that was -almost pain, was as fair and sweet a creation as ever came from the -thought of God. So like his father--in the eyes of the grandmother, that -there were moments when she could shut herself up alone with him and -live her mother-joy over again. - -Not many of them; her time with him was literally counted by moments, -and grew more and more uncertain each passing day. - -Ruth had schooled herself to see at least indifference on the part of -the mother toward her child, and had planned how she would try to atone -for such unutterable loss by making him the very centre of her own life. -But behold! instead of anything like indifference, Irene developed a -love for the child so passionate, so fierce, indeed, that it suggested -the instinct of wild animals, instead of cultivated motherhood. - -Moreover, the poor mother was jealous of even the nurse who lavished -loving nonsense upon her baby, and intensely jealous of the grandmother, -for whom the baby, even thus early in his life, began to exhibit a -perverse fondness. - -The entire situation was a surprise, and, it must be admitted, an added -blow to Ruth. Instead of being able to rejoice that the maternal -instinct had been at last awakened in this woman, she was dismayed and -heartsick over it. If Irene meant to begin thus early to keep the boy -under her constant care and surveillance, what hope was there for his -future? - -She awakened to the fact that she had been counting upon this mother's -fondness for all sorts of social functions, and expecting to see her -enter with zest upon her former care-free life, thus making it possible -for the baby to be much under his grandmother's supervision. She had -planned prematurely. Irene seemed to have forgotten society; she never -walked, or drove, without her baby; she kept him with her during all his -waking moments, and apparently lived for the purpose of warding off the -attentions of, especially, his grandmother. - -In vain did Ruth try, by utmost deference to the mother's superior -claim, by never presuming to offer even a suggestion as to the child's -care, to disarm the intense dislike that Irene could not help showing--a -dislike of having her even notice the child. - -So marked was this condition of things becoming to the servants that -Ruth, beyond measure distressed and bewildered, stayed much of the time -in her own room, and considered and abandoned a dozen schemes for going -away again. The difficulty was to make any movement that would not -excite Erskine's suspicion; for Erskine, being a man and a very busy -one, continued to be what Irene once told him he was, "as blind as a -bat." He was a very proud, glad father, prepared to believe that his son -was the sweetest, brightest, most beautiful baby who ever blessed the -earth with his presence, and he was unequivocally and blissfully happy -at seeing that baby in his grandmother's arms. In rejoicing over her -home-coming, and in delighting over the thought of having his son grow -up in daily intimacy with her, he said "we" as heartily and jubilantly -as though certain that Irene shared his happiness, and it is certain -that he so believed. - -"We have learned one lesson, anyway," he said gayly, as they sat -together one evening after dinner. "That is that we mustn't let you get -away from home again very soon. A mother who has no conception of when -it is time to come home must not be allowed her freedom. Do you think we -have forgiven you already for those months of indifference to us? What -was the charm, mommie? You have never told us. The truth is, you have -told us very little about that long visit. Irene used to be sure that -there was some attraction that you did not reveal. Have you made her -confess, Irene?" - -Irene made a feint of joining in his gayety, and said something about -not thinking it worth while to attempt what he had failed in -accomplishing. - -"Well," Erskine said, after a moment, puzzled and a trifle hurt because -his mother did not seem to join heartily in the nonsense, "there is one -comfort; I am not afraid of her deserting us again. Erskine Burnham, -Junior, is an attraction that will hold, even though his father's power -seems to have waned." - -It was by random sentences like these, that Ruth was made to realize how -difficult it would be to get away again. - -As the days passed and the situation grew more and more strained, the -mother's only comfort was that Erskine did not understand it. How should -he? The claims of business pressed every day more heavily upon him. From -being the younger partner in a great legal firm, as his decided ability -became known, he had risen steadily, until responsibilities as well as -honors had been thrust upon him, and he was now a recognized power in -his profession. This meant very close attention to business, and he had -scarcely any time that he could call his own. - -How could he know, and, after a little, the resolute mother asked -herself why he should ever know that when he left his beautiful home -each morning for his long, busy day in town, he left jealousy and -suspicion and unreasoning aversion behind him? - -"I think she hates me," Ruth said to herself as she sat in her room with -folded hands and listened to the vigorous protests of the boy across the -hall, and knew that she, his grandmother, who loved every hair of his -dear golden head, must hold herself from going to him. "I am sure she -hates me, and the feeling grows stronger every day. Oh, what shall I do? -what can I do! How is one to endure such a state of things for a -lifetime? I am not an old woman. I may have to stay here for years and -years! If I could _only_ get through with it all and go to my home!" - -It was not often that she indulged herself in such moods, and she felt -always distinctly self-condemned when they were allowed to take hold of -her. She had never been one to indulge herself in what her old friend -Eurie Mitchell used to characterize as "useless whining"; and it would -be beneath the mature Christian to allow it. - -But a crisis was at hand. Erskine surprised his family one afternoon by -coming home several hours earlier than usual. - -"I ran away!" was his gay announcement as he found his wife and mother -in the living-room. They had been entertaining a caller who had asked -first for Ruth, and then had insisted upon seeing the young mother and -the baby. - -"Such tiresome people!" Irene had said impatiently. "Forever trying to -pry into my affairs! I wish they would at least let me have my baby in -peace." - -But she had ordered the nurse to bring him down to her in a few minutes, -for the callers were Erskine's friends of long standing, and she knew -that he meant them to be treated with all deference. - -"This is great luck to find you both here," Erskine said. "It will save -time. I escaped from the office on purpose to enjoy a drive with my -family. It is just the day for Boy Junior," and he tossed the delighted -baby in his arms as he spoke. "It is as balmy as spring. Why, this is a -spring month, isn't it? I had forgotten. Get ready, beloveds, and we -shall have time for a glimpse of the bay before the sun sets." - -"Oh, no!" said Irene, hastily. "Not today, Erskine; I don't want to go. -You can take mother, and baby and I will stay at home." - -Erskine looked surprised and troubled. - -"Why is that, dear? I planned on purpose for you. I don't think you get -out enough in this sweet spring air. I could not help noticing how pale -and worn you looked this morning. Don't you think so, mamma? Come, -dearest, it will do you good; and I have so little time nowadays for -driving with you. I have been planning all the morning to get away." - -"I don't want to go," Irene said fretfully. But her husband took no -notice of the words. - -"We'll go on a lark!" he explained to the delighted baby. "Father and -mother and grandmother and grandson. How does that sound, my boy? I feel -like a boy myself to-day. You and the little boy may have the back seat, -mommie, and your big girl and boy will sit in front, and drive. Don't -you want to drive, Irene? The horses are in fine spirit, just as you -like them to feel when you have the reins. - -"Here, nurse," as that young woman appeared at the moment in the -doorway. "Put this young man into driving attire, while the ladies are -getting on their wraps. We mustn't waste another minute of this glorious -sunshine." - -But at this point the baby asserted himself. The nurse had taken him -from his father's arms and was moving toward the door; as he passed -Ruth, he made a quick, unexpected spring in her direction, and had not -her arms been quick and her grasp firm, there might have been an -accident. As it was, he cuddled in her embrace with a gurgle of -happiness. - -"You young scamp!" said the proud father, with a relieved laugh. "You -knew where you meant to land, didn't you? Showed excellent taste, too. -He is becoming to you, mommie. You look young enough to-day to be -mistaken for his mother. Doesn't she, Irene?" - -For Ruth's cheeks had flushed like a girl's, and her heart was beating -swiftly under the baby's caresses. She bent her head over the golden -one, and murmured some incoherent sentence, while she hid eyes that were -filled with tears. It was so rare a thing in these days to get a chance -to cuddle that baby! - -And then Irene spoke, in a tone of voice that her husband had rarely -heard:-- - -"Rebecca, I did not ring for you. Go away; I will bring the baby myself. -I _wish_ you wouldn't! I don't want him kissed nor fondled. Give him to -me." - -This last, addressed to Ruth, in a tone so sharp and a manner so rude -that Erskine in unbounded astonishment said:-- - -"Irene!" - -Just that word, but not as she had ever before heard it spoken. - -"I don't care!" she said. "Let her leave my baby alone. I don't want her -to touch him, and I won't have it! I _won't_! I say!" - -Her voice had risen almost to a scream. - -Rebecca had disappeared with the swiftness with which this woman's -servants generally obeyed her commands, and Ruth, putting the baby -without a word into his amazed father's arms, fled away also. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVI - - A STRANGE CHANGE - - -THERE was no driving out that day; the Burnham horses were remanded to -the stable with no other explanation to their astonished care taker than -that the ladies had decided not to go out. - -When Ruth, distressed and bewildered as to what course to take, obeyed -the tardy summons to dinner, she found a stranger in the dining room -whom Erskine introduced as a member of the Severn law firm, from town, -who had come out for a business conference. Would she be kind enough to -take Irene's place at table? His wife, he explained to the guest, was -the victim of a severe headache and must be excused. - -Throughout the dinner Erskine was thoughtful for and courteously -attentive to his mother; but of course there was no opportunity for a -personal word. When at last he excused himself for a business conference -and took his guest to the library, Ruth stood where he had left her, -irresolute and distressed. Under normal conditions the proper and -natural thing for a mother whose daughter was suffering with headache -would be to go to her with sympathetic inquiries and offers of help. -Should she attempt this? Would Erskine think it the right step for her -to take? She feared that she knew only too well how Irene would receive -her; but no matter. The question was, What did Erskine want? What did he -think about it all? Did he blame her for the strange exhibition he had -seen that afternoon? True, it was not more than she had endured before, -but it was a strange experience to Erskine, and it would be only natural -for him to think that his wife must have had strong provocation, in -order to make such an outburst possible. If he thought that,--if he -blamed her in any way, how would it be possible ever to undeceive him? -Wait--ought she to undeceive him? Ought she even to exonerate herself? -Could she expect any man to take sides against his wife? What a horrible -question! Could she want him to do such a thing even for her? Oh, the -misery of it all! That she and her son had reached the hour when they -could not explain to each other! - -Only one thing seemed certain. She must go away somewhere, and speedily. -It must now be apparent even to Erskine that they could not continue -longer in this way of living. - -She crept back to her room, at last, and sat in the darkness with hands -closely clasped, so closely that the diamond of her engagement ring cut -into the flesh. She listened for words from across the hall, or for -movements. She went over and over and over the miserable scene of the -afternoon; she listened for Erskine, and wondered if he would stop at -her room, and was afraid to have him come. - -It was late when he came upstairs very quietly and paused at his -mother's door and listened; and she was breathlessly still. Then he went -on, to his own rooms; and Ruth, physically exhausted, went to her bed, -and, in the course of time, fell asleep, not having been able to come to -any decision as to what she could do. - -The gray dawn of another day was beginning to make faint shadows in the -room, when a knock at her door awakened her, and Erskine entered. - -Was she awake? he inquired anxiously. It was too bad to disturb her -rest, but he must. Irene was ill, very ill. Nurse was with her, and the -baby had awakened and was crying. Might he bring him to her, and could -she care for him until they could plan how to manage? - -Even in that moment of haste and anxiety Ruth detected in her son's -voice a kind of solemn relief, almost of satisfaction, and read its -meaning. It was as if he had said:-- - -"Irene is violently ill, is not herself, indeed, and probably has not -been for a long time. It is plain that she was not responsible for what -she said or did yesterday." His mother could understand that even such -an explanation, sad as it was, was balm to his soul. She sprang up and -began to dress in haste, while she answered him. Of course she would -care for Baby; bring him at once; or wait, she would go for him herself. - -"Go back to Irene," she commanded. "She may be needing you this minute; -and you needn't think of Baby again." How glad her hungry arms were to -enfold him, even at such price, she would have been almost ashamed to -have had known. - -In this manner the dreaded day broke for them; with all embarrassments -forgotten and all programmes of possible action swept away. Irene was -desperately ill. Rebecca, the baby's nurse, who was a graduate of a -training school, and had done hospital service, admitted that it looked -like what she called "a case." She was willing to transfer her -attentions entirely to the mother, until other arrangements could be -made. - -Then began in the Burnham household a new and strange but very busy -life. With incredible promptness the house took on that indescribable -and distinctly felt change which serious illness brings in its train. -All ordinary routine was suspended. The eight o'clock car for which -Erskine was almost as sure to be ready as the sun was to rise at a given -moment, halted at the corner for passengers as usual, but went on -without him. He came down to breakfast at any hour when he could best -get away from Irene, and sometimes stood in the doorway, coffee cup in -hand, ready for a summons; for Irene was as imperious in her delirium as -she had been in health. The house seemed to be in the hands of -physicians and nurses. As the illness had from the first assumed a -serious form, a trained nurse had been at once secured, but it proved -necessary for Rebecca, also, to be in almost constant attendance. This -placed the baby entirely in the care of his grandmother, whose thankful -and devoted service was his at any hour of the day or night. While the -machinery of all the rest of the house was more or less thrown out of -gear, the people taking their meals at any hour that chanced to be -convenient for them, and ordering all their movements with a view to the -sick room, Erskine Burnham junior went on his serene and methodical way. -He was bathed and dressed and breakfasted at his usual hours; he went -out in his carriage at the given time; he sat on the porch in the -sunshine at just such and such periods, and was in every respect as -serene and sunny and well-cared-for a baby as though his mother was not -lying upstairs making a desperate fight for life. - -This state of things lasted for about three weeks; then the alarming -character of the illness subsided, and by degrees, the long, slow period -of convalescence was entered upon, and the house adjusted itself again -to changed conditions. - -In kitchen and dining room something like routine could once more be -carried out; and Erskine began to think of business, and even to get -away to his office for an hour or two each day. - -By and by the closely drawn shades below stairs were raised, and flowers -began to appear in the vases. - -But in Baby Erskine's apartments his grandmother still reigned supreme. -The special trained nurse had departed, and Rebecca had sole charge of -the patient. A young nurse girl had been secured at the first, to help -with the care of baby, under Ruth's supervision, and she was proving -herself a comfort. - -Altogether, these days, full of responsibilities though they were, and -not without some anxieties, held much comfort and even happiness for -Ruth. Erskine's baby was in her care, and as often as she chose was in -her arms; she could fondle him as she would, without fear of reproof. -She could bathe and rub and clothe the perfect little body, she could -curl the lovely golden rings of hair about her fingers, she could catch -him up in a transport of bliss and kiss his lovely little neck and -dimpled chin and exquisite arms, and in a thousand tender mother-ways -rest her heart upon him. - -And the baby lavished love without measure upon her, and clung to her -when any attempt was made to take him away, and made wild little -demonstrations of delight at her approach; and all day she was happy. - -It was only at night when he lay in his crib near her bedside, sleeping -quietly, that the spectre of the near future came and sat with her and -set her heart to quivering. The days were passing swiftly; each one was -bringing nearer the hour when she must give back her treasure and banish -herself. Where? She did not know; she had not been able to decide. -Somewhere with Maybelle, if that could be brought about; only--What -could be said to Erskine? - -Was it absolutely necessary? Was it possible that this very serious -illness, whose outcome much of the time had been more than doubtful, had -wrought changes in Irene? Sometimes it almost seemed to her that such -was the case; and yet it might be only physical weakness that made the -difference. - -Daily now, by the doctor's advice, Baby was taken to his mother's room -for a few minutes. At first, Ruth sent the little maid with him, and -avoided going in at the same time, lest the baby's demonstrations of -delight over her would annoy his mother. But one morning as she was -passing through the hall with Baby in her arms, the door of the sick -room opened, and Rebecca called:-- - -"Mrs. Burnham, will you please bring Baby here a minute? His mother -wants to see him." - -So Ruth turned at once and carried him to the bedside, where he, being -in genial mood, chose to smile upon and coo at his mother. - -"He grows rapidly, doesn't he?" Irene said, and it was the first remark -she had volunteered, directed to her mother-in-law. - -Ruth had seen her twice a day ever since there had been any admittance -for other than those in constant attendance, but her visits had -necessarily been very brief, and there had been no attempt at -conversation. - -"Yes, indeed!" she made haste to say. "He is growing finely; you will be -astonished to find how strong he is, and he seems to be perfectly well." - -"He does you credit." His mother's tone was listlessness personified. -Ruth, looking at her closely, began to realize that some strange change -which seemed not to be accounted for by illness had come upon Irene. It -was not simply that the fierceness of her love for her child was gone, -and almost if not quite indifference taken its place, physical weakness -might account for that; but there was an indescribable something about -her that seemed to Ruth like a surrender, as one who had made a fierce -fight and been worsted in the battle and had given up. The troubled -grandmother thought it all over after she and baby were back in his -room. She could not but fear that a new distress was coming upon them. -What if Irene were that abnormal creature, a woman who could not -continue to love a child, even her own! There was no fear that she would -again desert it, her evident and unfailing, even increasing passion for -her husband would hold her, this time, to her home; but--could the -misery of it be borne, if this baby must grow up under the control of an -unloving mother? She strained him to her so suddenly and so closely that -he rebelled, and got off a lovely jargon of talk in protest. - -She went back, later, to Irene's room, carrying the baby who was in a -flutter of delight over just the joy of living. It did not seem possible -that one could look at him without loving him. She could not help -wanting to test Irene and see if her interest in him had indeed waned. - -She smiled languidly on him, and suffered Ruth to place him on the couch -beside her, although she said:-- - -"Two visits in one morning! Hasn't he been here before?" - -"He was so sweet in his new dress," Ruth explained, "that I thought his -mamma ought to see him while it was fresh." Then she began to rehearse -some of his pretty baby ways, making a distinct effort to awaken in his -mother's heart a sense of pride in her child. Irene listened vaguely, as -one who only half heard. Suddenly she made an impatient movement. - -"Here," she said, "take your baby. He is so full of life that the very -sight of him wearies me. Take him away." - -Ruth's heart sank. Better the fiercest, unreasoning passion of love and -jealousy than this! - -Others beside herself began to notice and be puzzled and troubled by -this change in the patient. Rebecca, the nurse, expressed her mind to -Ruth in anxious whispers. - -"Doesn't it seem queer to you, ma'am, that she doesn't notice baby more? -and he growing so smart and cunning! You know how she was just bound up -in the child, and couldn't seem to think of anything else?" - -"It is because she is still so weak that she cannot yet think -connectedly about anything," Ruth replied with a confidence that she was -far from feeling. "You noticed, didn't you, that she said he was so full -of life it wearied her to look at him?" - -But the nurse who had received hospital training, shook her head and -whispered again:-- - -"It isn't right, ma'am, somehow. I'm no croaker but I've seen lots of -sick folks and I don't think things are going just right with her. If I -were Mr. Burnham, I should want another doctor to see her, -or--something." - -Then came Erskine, his face troubled. - -"Mamma, did you ever see any one get well as slowly as Irene does? It -almost seems to me as though she is weaker to-day than she was two weeks -ago; and she seems to take less and less notice of Baby. Last night when -I heard him laughing, I asked her if she did not want me to bring him -for a little good-night visit, and she said: 'No, I don't want him. I've -given him up!'" - -His voice broke with the last word, but he waited for his mother to say -something encouraging; and she had only the merest commonplaces. - -"She has been very ill, Erskine, and I suppose we must be patient. She -cannot be expected to be interested in anything while she is still so -weak." - -"Mamma, you don't think--" and then Ruth was glad that the baby cried, -and she had to go to him, without waiting to tell what she thought. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVII - - A RETROGRADE MOVEMENT - - -ERSKINE, once roused, could not rest. He came to his mother on the next -evening, his face more troubled than before. - -"Mamma, I had a long talk with the doctor this morning. He is not -satisfied with the present state of things. He admits that for some days -there has been a retrograde movement. He has been watching very closely -and has become convinced that there is some mental disturbance, a heavy -mental strain of some kind that must be removed before medicine will be -of any use. Now what possible mental strain could Irene have! - -"I told the doctor that before we were married, she went through very -trying experiences, and lost her nearest relative while she was alone in -a foreign country; but that time was long past, of course, and there had -been absolutely nothing since, to trouble her." - -His mother's start of dismay at hearing the doctor's word, and the -flushing of her face did not escape him, and he added almost sternly:-- - -"Mother, are you keeping something from me that I ought to know?" - -For a moment she did not know how to answer him. Then her mind cleared -and she spoke quietly:-- - -"I am doing right, Erskine; I have no secrets of my own from you. I have -heard of some things that I can conceive of as troubling Irene, but she -did not confide them to me, and I have no right to talk about them even -to you; especially as I can think of no good, but rather harm, to -result." - -He turned from her abruptly. She could see that he was not only sorely -perplexed but hurt; in his hour of deepest need his mother seemed to -have failed him. - -It was a bitter hour for her. Yet she felt that she must be right. Would -any one but a fiend go to Erskine now with the story of his wife's long -years of living a lie! If her duty elsewhere were but as clear as this! -Could it be that this was what was preying upon Irene and causing that -retrograde movement? Had her long-sluggish conscience awakened at last? -Was she perhaps ignorant of the fate of her daughter? Was she afraid -that her former husband was still living, and that he and Erskine might, -sometime, meet? Who could tell what questions of horror and terror were -struggling in her tired brain and wearing out her weakened body? - -Ought she--the woman who knew the whole dread story, knew many details -that the sick one did not--ought she to be the surgeon to probe that -wound? To be able to talk about it all might help. And yet--who could -tell? The knowledge that her husband's mother knew every detail of that -life which had been so carefully hidden from them, might be the last -shock to that already overcharged brain. - -Oh, to be sure of her duty! She told herself that she would perform it -at any cost, she would shrink from nothing, now, if she could but be -sure of the way. Well, why should she not be sure? Where was her Father? -What was that promise: "Thine ears shall hear a word behind thee saying: -'This is the way, walk ye in it.'" - -Sleep did not come to her that night, but perhaps she was given a -strength that was better. She spent much of the time on her knees beside -the quietly sleeping baby; and though, when morning came, she was not -sure which way she was to turn that day, "whether to the right hand or -the left," she found her mind repeating the words: "In quietness and -confidence shall be your strength." - -The day passed without marked changes of any sort. Erskine comforted -himself with the belief that Irene was a trifle stronger. He told his -mother that Dr. Sutherland was coming out to see her on the following -day. The great nerve specialist could not get away from the city before -that time. Irene heard of his expected visit with the same air of -indifference that she had exhibited toward all things of late. She lay -very quiet most of the day, and at evening made no objection whatever to -Erskine's going to an important conference with his firm. - -No sooner was he gone than she herself proposed that Rebecca go at that -time to the kitchen to superintend the making of a new kind of food for -her, instead of waiting until morning. - -"I might want to try it in the night," she said, "and I don't need any -further attention at present. Mother will stay with me." - -This looked like deliberate planning. Irene had never before, of her own -will, arranged to spend five minutes alone with her mother-in-law. That -astonished woman while hastening to agree to the proposition, made a -swift mental claim upon the promise: "Thine ears shall hear a word -behind thee saying, This is the way." - -It was Irene who began conversation as soon as the door closed after -Rebecca. But the topic she chose was a new astonishment. - -"I have been thinking about those two step-daughters of yours, Seraph -and Minta. You must have lived a strange life with them." - -Ruth turned surprised eyes upon her. - -"I did not suppose that you had ever heard of the girls," she said. -"Erskine was so young when they left us that I thought he scarcely -remembered them." - -"Oh, he remembers them very well. He has told me some things; but it was -Mrs. Portland from whom I received their connected history. She was here -for two months while you were away, and was quite intimate with me; she -ran in often, and liked nothing better than to talk about you and those -two girls." - -Now Mrs. Portland was an old resident of the neighborhood who had known -Judge Burnham and his daughters before Ruth had heard of their -existence. What she could reveal of their history if she chose, would -leave nothing for another to tell. The question was, Why had their story -interested this sick woman? Or rather, why was it being brought forward -just now? - -"It seems strange that they both came back to you to die, doesn't it?" - -This was certainly a strange way of putting it! Ruth hesitated how to -reply. At last, she said:-- - -"Seraph never left home, you know; and poor Minta was glad to return to -it. She had been through a very bitter experience." - -"Yes, I heard about it. You have had all sorts of experiences yourself, -haven't you? And to conclude with a good-for-nothing daughter-in-law -seems too bad!" - -Surprise and almost consternation held Ruth silent. This was so utterly -unlike any sentence that she had expected! Irene's tone expressed both -sympathy and regret. Ruth decided to pass it off lightly. She laughed a -little in a way that was intended to express good cheer, as she said:-- - -"You are not to find fault with my daughter-in-law, if you please! I -allow no one to do that." - -"That is because you are not acquainted with her yourself. You don't -know anything about her. You think you do, but you are mistaken." - -There was no excitement in her tone; there was even no indication that -she had a personal interest in the conversation; it seemed to be a mere -statement of fact. - -Ruth's swift thought took hold of the promise and heard the voice: "This -is the way." She spoke with quiet firmness. - -"I know all about her; I know a great deal more than she thinks I do." - -Irene moved on her pillow so as to get a more direct view of the other's -face as she asked:-- - -"What do you mean?" - -"Just that, dear. I know much more than you think, and have known it for -a long time." - -"You don't know what I mean," the tone was still impersonal, "but I am -going to tell you. You think I was a widow when I married your son. I -was not." She raised herself slightly on one elbow as she spoke, using -more strength than she had exerted since her illness. Ruth came swiftly -over to her and slipped a supporting arm under her as she said:-- - -"Don't try to raise yourself up, Irene, and I wouldn't talk any more. I -know all that you want to tell me. You were a divorced wife, and your -husband was living; but he has since died. You see I understand all -about it." - -Irene's eyes fairly pierced her with their keenness; still, her voice -betrayed no emotion. - -"You knew it all the time?" she said. - -"I have known it for a very long time, Irene. Don't talk any more; it is -time for your medicine now, and after it you must be very quiet, you -know." - -Irene was as one who had not heard. - -"You do not know the worst," she said, still speaking as though her -words were about some one else; but she was deathly pale. "There was a -child." - -Ruth hurriedly wet a cloth in a restorative and bathed her face, while -she spoke low and soothingly, as to a child. - -"Yes, I know; there was a dear little girl, who is a young woman -now,--one of the sweetest, dearest girls in the world. I know her and -love her. Irene, for Erskine's sake, won't you try to be careful!" - -For Irene had pushed the soothing hand away and was making a fierce -effort to raise herself to a sitting posture, and her eyes looked to -Ruth for the first time like Maybelle's. - -Ruth hurried her words. - -"I know all that you want to say; you must lie quiet and let me talk. I -am sure there must have been strong provocation, and you were very -young; I know how bitterly you must have regretted it all." - -"You cannot know that, at least," she said. "There is no need for what -you call future punishment, I have had mine here; and I have hated you -for fear you would find me out. How long have you known it?" - -"For a long time, many months. Irene, I _cannot_ let you talk or think -about it now. Won't you try to put it all away for to-night? There is -nothing, you see, that you need to tell me." - -The great solemn eyes that Maybelle's were like when she was troubled -were fixed upon Ruth. - -"Could you put it away?" she asked. "It has never been away from me for -a moment, the fear that Erskine would--would--" - -A convulsive shiver ran through her frame, as of one in physical pain. - -"Oh!" said Ruth, in terror, "this is all wrong! If you are worse, -Erskine will never forgive me." - -Irene made a visible effort to control herself, and lay with closed -eyes, and motionless, allowing Ruth to bathe her face and make hot -applications to her hands and feet. After a little, she spoke, quietly -enough. - -"I will talk quietly, but you must let me talk, now. I have kept it to -myself just as long as I can. Since Baby came, my life has been a daily -terror. Will you tell me how you came to know about me, and why you have -not told Erskine? I am sure you have not, but I do not understand why." - -"Because," said Ruth, solemnly, "Jesus Christ, to whom I belong, told me -not to do so. It is your secret, Irene, yours and His. You must let Him -tell you what to do with it." - -Irene gazed at her. "You are a strange woman," she said at last, "a very -strange woman; but you are good, and I have not understood you. I am -sorry that I hated you. If I had understood, it might have -been--different. I thought you would find it out, sometime, women always -do, and I hated you for that; I dreaded you, you know. Every letter that -came from you while you were away made me faint and sick because of what -might be in it. I was afraid to have Erskine come home at night because -of what he might have heard; and I was afraid to have him go away again -in the morning for fear it would be the last time he would kiss me." - -"Poor child!" The words were wrung from Ruth's heart,--the first words -of real tenderness that she had ever spoken to this woman. - -Again there came that strange new look into Irene's eyes. - -[Illustration: "I'M SORRY THAT I HATED YOU."--_Page 354._] - -"You are a good woman," she said slowly. "I am sorry that I hated you. -Let me talk now, and tell you about it. I have got to! I ought not to -have married that man; I never pretended even to him that I loved him. I -married to get rid of dulness and restraint, and to go to Europe. I was -a young fool! I got rid of nothing, and instead of feeling only -indifference for him I learned to hate him. He was a drunkard, and I -hated him for that. Then--I did not like the baby. You can't quite -control your horror of that, can you? I don't wonder, now that I have -learned what mother-love really is. I could almost hate myself for -having such a feeling. You think a mother couldn't--but she can. I -turned from the child, just as I had from the father, in disgust. Even -so early in her life she looked like him, and I hated him. He was a weak -man, and I never had any patience with weakness. Sometimes he was -maudlin and loving, and then I hated him worst of all. One day I went -away from him and stayed away. That was all I did. Oh, yes, I got a -divorce; that was because I hated his name. At first I meant to do -something for the child, I didn't know what,--he worshipped the -baby,--and then I heard that it died; and I did not know until years -afterward that it lived; but it was too late then to do anything. By -that time I had met Erskine and discovered what love really meant. Oh, -to think how I have loved him! and I have struggled and planned and lied -to keep his love! I have even prayed to keep it! and now it is all -over!" - -"Irene," said her listener, firmly. "If you persist in talking, I shall -have to send for Erskine. You must swallow this sedative and then lie -still and let me talk. I will say in just a minute all I want to, and -then we will both be quiet and you will try to sleep, for Erskine's -sake. It isn't all over; it is just beginning. We cannot undo the past, -but we can make another thing of the present--and the future. I promise -you, before God, and call on Him to witness, that I will never by word -or look reveal to Erskine one word of what we have said or of what I -know, unless you tell me to do so. When you are well and strong again, -you will decide how much or how little you want to tell him. God will -show you what is right and you will want to do right; I am sure of it. -And we will love each other, you and I, and help each other. Two women -who love one man as you and I love Erskine Burnham should be very much -to each other. Now I am not going to say another word." - -She bent her head and kissed the sick woman on her forehead--her first -voluntary caress. - -Irene, who had closed her eyes and was death-like in her stillness, -opened them again and looked steadily at her. Then she said with slow -conviction in her tones:-- - -"You are a good woman." - - - - - CHAPTER XXVIII - - "SOMETHING HAD HAPPENED" - - -BUT Ruth Burnham went to her room that night in a tumult of pain and -self-reproach keener than she had felt for years. - -As plainly as though a book had been opened before her, and a solemn -unseen figure had pointed to the page, she read the story of her -failure. - -She had tried to be good to this woman, she had been outwardly patient -with her faults, she had been long suffering, she had been silent over -wrongs--she had effaced herself in a thousand ways, but she had been as -cold as ice. There had been nothing in her face or voice to invite the -confidence of this younger, weaker woman. There had been nothing in her -daily attitude toward her to suggest the love and sympathy of Christ. - -She cried to Him for forgiveness, for the privilege of beginning again, -for wisdom to know just how to do it. And then she prayed for Irene in a -way that, with all her trying, she had not been able to do before. - -It came to her while on her knees that she would tell Irene of -Maybelle's beautiful faith and daily praying for her mother, without -knowing that it was her mother. - -Were the child's prayers being answered? Was this strange new mood of -Irene's part of the answer? - -But they could not be brought together, that mother and daughter, not -now--it was too late. How could they? What explanation of her existence, -of their intense interest in her, could be given to Erskine? Would Irene -ever be intensely interested in Maybelle? Could she do other than shrink -from her now, after all these strange years? - -Oh! there were depths to this trouble that she must not try to touch. -But one thing was plain: she must help Irene. Whatever would do that, at -whatever sacrifice, must be done. - -The next day, that in some way Ruth had thought would be an eventful -one, passed in even unusual quiet. Irene seemed less restless than -usual, and lay much of the time with closed eyes. The great specialist -came out to see her, and there was a long interview, and a long -conference afterward with the attending physician, but they kept their -own counsel. All that the family knew was that in the main they agreed, -and the specialist wished to withhold his final opinion until he saw the -patient again after thirty-six hours. - -In the evening Irene roused herself from what had for several hours been -almost a stupor, to ask Erskine if he could give the entire evening to -her, and if they could be quite alone. - -"Yes, indeed," he said with a brave attempt at gayety. "We will banish -them all, even Rebecca, and I will be doctor and head nurse and errand -boy combined. See that you get a good sleep, Rebecca, and you need not -come until I ring for you." - -To Ruth this arrangement was somewhat of a disappointment. She had hoped -that Irene would want to see her for a few minutes; there were questions -that it would seem as though she must want to ask, and there were things -that Ruth felt might help her, if she were told them. But Irene gave no -hint that she even remembered what had passed between them, save that, -as Ruth went to bid her good-night, she made a movement with her hand to -draw her down and murmured:-- - -"You are a good woman." - -Erskine held the door open for his mother to pass, then followed her -into the hall. - -"Mamma, don't you think Irene has seemed a little better to-day, more -quiet? And she took a good deal of notice of Baby this afternoon." - -There was such a wistful note in his voice that his mother's eyes filled -with tears; she longed to comfort him, and realized that she did not -know how. - -She was wakeful and alert during the first part of the night, ready for -some emergency which she feared, without knowing just why. But toward -morning she slept heavily, and was wakened by the sunshine and the -prattle of Baby's voice in his crib at her bedside. - -She dressed hurriedly, still with that vague impression upon her that -something had happened or was about to happen. In the hall was Erskine, -standing with folded arms gazing out of the window; gazing at nothing. -The first glimpse she had of him she knew that something had already -happened. His face was gray, not white, with a pallor that was unnatural -and startling; he gave her a strange impression of having grown suddenly -old--years older than he had been the night before. And he looked -strangely like his father. - -"Erskine," his mother said, alarmed, and hurried toward him. - -He turned at once, lifting a warning finger. - -"Hush!" he said; "I think she is sleeping. She has been very quiet since -midnight." - -Then he went without another word into his dressing-room and closed the -door. - -It was a strange long day. The patient lay quiet, not sleeping all the -time, but like one too weak and too indifferent to life to move. The -house was kept very still; although noises did not seem to disturb the -sick one, the different members of the household conversed in -mono-syllables and in whispers when they met. - -Ruth kept the baby out all day in the lovely soft summer air, and he was -happy. When a tear rolled once or twice down the cheeks of his -grandmother, he kissed her lovingly, and patted her face with his soft -hand. The specialist came again, but he did not stay long, and Ruth, who -could not leave her charge at the time, did not know what he said. No -one came to her with any word. One of the maids told her that Mr. -Burnham was sitting beside his wife, and had not left her room for -hours. - -The afternoon shadows were growing long, and Ruth was explaining to the -baby that it was almost time for him to go to his little bed, and that -she did not know whether mamma could kiss him good-night or not, when -Rebecca, her face swollen with weeping, crossed the lawn and touched her -arm. - -"May I take Baby, ma'am? The doctor said perhaps you would want to go to -Mr. Burnham. He went into his dressing-room and closed his door, and the -doctor thinks perhaps you might help him; he was awfully pale." - -"Is any thing wrong?" Ruth asked hurriedly, as she rose up to give her -charge into Rebecca's arms. "Is she worse?" - -But Rebecca was crying. "Oh, ma'am," she said, "she just slipped away! -it was awfully sudden for him! the doctor told him she might live for -hours, I heard him." - -"Rebecca, she is not _dead_!" - -"She just stopped breathing, ma'am, and that was all. Mr. Burnham was -sitting close to her where he has been sitting 'most all day, and she -didn't look any different to me. I thought she was asleep; but he looked -up suddenly at the doctor, poor man, with _such a face_! I never shall -forget it! and the doctor said:-- - -"'Yes, she is gone.'" - -And then Rebecca, who had not loved her mistress devotedly in life, -broke into bitter weeping. - -Ruth was like one paralyzed. She stood gazing at the girl as though -unable to move. It was not Erskine's grief so much as her own -consternation that held her. It seemed to her impossible that Irene was -dead! With all her thinking, and her foreboding, she had not thought of -that. She had felt on the eve of a great calamity, but it had not been -death. Erskine's gray, pale face that morning had not suggested such -trouble. Instead, she had worried herself all day long with the -possibilities connected with that evening conference; of what Irene had -told him, and how he had borne it and what he would feel must be done. - -She went to Erskine at last, utterly in doubt what to say to him. He was -in his private study with his head bowed on the desk. He did not notice -his mother's entrance by so much as a movement. She went over to him and -laid her hand gently on the brown curly locks, with a caressing movement -familiar to him from childhood. He put out a hand and drew her to him, -but neither of them spoke a word. - -A tender memory of the long ago came to Ruth. She was back in the days -of Erskine's childhood, she was in that very study which had been his -father's, with her head bowed in anguish on her husband's desk, while he -lay in the room below dressed for the grave. Her little boy stood beside -her, a longing desire upon him to comfort his mother; and half -frightened because she cried. - -"Mamma," he had said at last, hesitatingly, "Mamma, does God sometimes -make a mistake?" It had come to her like a voice of tender reproof from -God himself, and had helped her as nothing else did. Long afterward she -had told the boy about it, and it had become a sacred memory to them -both. - -"Erskine," she said at last, speaking very tenderly;-- - -"Does God sometimes make a mistake?" - -His strong frame shook. "O mother!" he said. "_O mother!_" and lifted -tearless eyes to her face. How old he looked, and haggard! How like to -his father his face had grown! - -Just then there came one of those commonplace interruptions from which -in times of mortal stress we shrink away. The intrusive world knocked at -his door with its questions, and thrust duties and responsibilities upon -him. - -Did Mr. Burnham wish this, or that, or the other? Could Dr. Cartwright -speak to him a moment? It was a matter of importance. Would he see Miss -Stuart for just a minute about a telegram? - -It was harrowing. His mother's heart ached for him. The interruptions to -his grief seemed impertinent and trivial, and those who were nearest to -him deplored them as they always do, without realizing that the -commonplaces of life are often salvation to desperate souls. - -Erskine rose up to meet the demands upon him, putting back with stern -hand all outward exhibition of his misery save that which his face told -for him. - -He gave careful attention to the thousand details that pressed upon him. -He planned and arranged and carried out, when necessary, saving his -mother all the burdens possible, but it seemed to her that he avoided -seeing her alone. - -It was not until Irene's body had been lying for an entire week in the -family burial ground that Erskine came to his mother's room one -afternoon and asked if she were engaged. - -"Only with Baby," she said eagerly. "Come in, Erskine, and see how sweet -he is. You haven't seen him since morning." - -He took the child in his arms and studied his face intently, smiling -over his pretty motions in a grave, absent-minded way; then he gave him -back with a question:-- - -"Can you banish him, mamma, for a little while? I want to talk with -you." - -"Yes, indeed," she said. "Rebecca can take him for a walk. I will have -him ready in a few minutes." - -He watched the process of robing and kissing, with eyes that seemed not -to see; and that troubled his mother, they were so full of pain. - -When the baby was gone, and Ruth had closed the doors leading into other -rooms and seated herself near to him, he seemed to have forgotten that -he wanted to talk. - -His eyes were fixed on the far-away hills that towered skyward, and were -snow-capped; and yet she was not sure that he saw them. - -"Mother," he said at last, "she told me you were a good woman, and it is -true. I have always been able to anchor to you. We have trusted each -other utterly, you and I, and spoken plainly to each other; we must -always do so. You have something to tell me. Will you begin at the -beginning and let me have all that you know? Don't try to spare me, -please; I want the whole. O mother! If I had only known long ago, it -might have been--different." - -There was no reply that she could make to this. - -After a moment, he said again: "You know that I am not blaming you, -don't you? It was what I might have expected of you, what you did; she -thought it was wonderful. But if she could only have trusted me! - -"Will you tell me the whole, mamma? Irene told me to ask you; she said -you would not tell it without her word. I mean about the man, and--the -child; all the details. How did you hear of it all, and when?" - -He hesitated over the simple words, his face flushing painfully. Ruth -hurried her speech to save him further effort. - -"Do you remember, Erskine, when our old acquaintance Mamie Parker called -upon me? It was then that I heard the story." - -He made a gesture of astonishment. - -"Mamie Parker! Is it possible that she is mixed up in our family -matters?" - -"She found the little girl without other care than a father could give, -and interested herself in her, and loved her. She has been thus far in -the child's life as dear and wise a friend as a girl could have." - -Then she began at the beginning and gave in minutest detail the whole -story, as it had come to her at first, and as she had since lived it -with Maybelle. - -Erskine's amazement at the discovery that the young girl to whom his -mother had been summoned by telegram, and for whom she had cared ever -since, was the one whose life-story he was now hearing, was only -equalled by his pain in it all. But after the first dismayed exclamation -he sat like a statue, his face partially hidden by his hand, -interrupting neither by question nor comment. - -Ruth purposely made her story long that he might have time to get the -control of himself; and she tried to make Maybelle's loveliness of heart -and mind and person glow before him; under the spell of the thought that -it would all be less terrible to him, if he could realize that his dead -wife's strange conduct had not ruined the young life. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIX - - RENUNCIATION - - -WHEN she stopped speaking because there was nothing more to be told, -they sat for a little in utter silence. - -When at last Erskine spoke in a low, carefully controlled voice, he -asked the very last question that his mother expected. - -"How soon do you think she could come to us?" - -"Who?" Ruth's astonishment blurred for the moment her penetration. - -"Mother! whom could I mean? The child. She must be sent for; she must -come at once; or, at least as soon as a suitable escort can be secured. -Would she come? And would she stay, do you think? I mean would she stay -willingly? Oh, mamma, surely you will help me!" - -"Erskine, dear boy, what do you want to do?" - -"My duty." He withdrew his shielding hand and his pallid lips made an -effort to smile; then grew grave again, taking almost stern lines. - -"She is my wife's daughter; and as such I stand now in the place of -father to her. As fully as it is possible for me to do so, now, I want -to fill that place. To provide for her, to take care of her in any and -every way that she may need care; to have my home hers as fully as it is -our little son's." His voice broke there, and for a moment he was still. -Then he went on. - -"You said you loved her; it would not be unpleasant to you to have her -here, would it?" - -Then his mother found her voice. - -"Erskine, Maybelle has a place in my heart second only to Baby's, and I -would like so much to have her with me, that at one time I tried to plan -a little home where we could be together. But--do you realize the -situation, do you think? We cannot live entirely to ourselves, you know, -we have friends; and we have neighbors who ask questions. If Maybelle -comes to us, to remain, what is to be said to them?" - -"The truth, mamma; never anything but truth. She is my wife's daughter -by a former marriage, the half-sister of my boy." - -"Erskine, dear son, I must hurt you, I am afraid; but do you realize -what the truth will be to the child? She loves her dead father with such -love as I believe few girls give, and she cherishes in her inmost heart -an ideal mother who has been invested with more than human qualities; if -you could hear her talk about that dear, dead mother, you would -understand." - -He had shielded his face again, and was quiet so long, that it seemed to -her she could not bear it. At last he spoke, huskily but with firmness. - -"I understand, mamma, more than you think; at least I believe I realize -something of her feeling; but--I cannot help it. Truth must be spoken; -the real must take the place of the ideal. Isn't it so in all our lives? -I promised her dead mother that it should be so. It was perhaps a morbid -feeling,--some might think so,--but in any case, she felt it; she said -that she could not die without my promise that the truth should be made -plain to the girl, and that she should be told the very words that her -mother said, at the last. And I believe she was right," he added firmly -after another moment of silence, "I will speak only truth about it all, -so help me God." - -Never was summons more joyfully received on the part of a young girl -than the one that called Maybelle to the distant home of her newest and, -as she phrased it, "almost" her best friend. - -The night preceding her departure she spent with the Roberts family, -where together they went over the situation as they understood it, for -Erskine Roberts's benefit. - -That young man had just arrived for a few days' vacation and could not -be said to approve of the new plans. - -"Why is Aunt Ruth in such terrific haste?" he grumbled. "She has never -mentioned a visit to you before this, has she?" - -"No," said Maybelle, her bright face shading for a moment. "She never -said a word about it; but you know it is all very different now. She is -alone; I mean there is no other woman, and there is a dear baby to be -thought about; I don't positively know, but I cannot help hoping that -she needs me." - -Maybelle's tones had become so jubilant that they made Erskine gloomy -and sarcastic. - -"For nurse girl you mean, I suppose," he said savagely. "And if that -delightful arrangement should be found convenient for them, I suppose -you would stay on indefinitely?" - -"Erskine," said his mother, smiling, "don't be a bear! she hasn't -promised to stay forever." - -Then Maybelle, her color much heightened, tried to explain further. "The -reason for such haste is so I can have one of Mr. Burnham's partners for -an escort. It was found that he had to come East on a hurried business -trip, and of course it was an unusual opportunity." - -"I should hope so!" grumbled the discontented youth. "And who is there -to escort you back? I'll venture they haven't planned for that!" Then -suddenly he bent toward the girl, ostensibly for the purpose of -returning to her the letter that had dropped to the floor, and spoke for -her ear alone. - -"I'll tell you how we will manage that, Maybelle. I will come for you -myself, if you will let me. Will you let me?" - -A vivid crimson mounted to the very forehead of the fair-faced girl, and -she seemed at a loss how to reply; but she certainly had not been -troubled by his appeal whatever it was, so the indulgent mother slipped -away and left the young people to themselves. - -* * * * * - -"Am I to tell her, Erskine?" Ruth had asked her son, on the day that she -was to go to the station to meet Maybelle. He shook his head. - -"No, mamma, no, I will not make it harder for you than is necessary. -Yes, I know only too well how surely you would do everything for me if -you could; but--I have assumed an obligation, and I do not mean to shirk -it in the slightest particular. Do not tell her anything save that you -wanted her--that is true, is it not?" he broke off to ask anxiously. -"Then, in the evening, when she has had time to become somewhat rested -from her journey, send her to me in my library and I will manage the -rest." - -How he managed it, or what took place during that interview which must -have been strangely tragic some of the time, Ruth never fully knew. She -asked no questions, and what her son and the girl revealed to her in -scraps and detached expressions afterward, suggested a confidence so -sacred that even she must not invade it. - -She had known by the start and the swift look of pain which swept over -Erskine's face when he first met Maybelle at the dinner table, that the -girl in her radiant beauty suggested his dead wife. To Ruth there was a -strange unlikeness to the face that she had not loved; but her heart was -able to understand how Irene had been to one whom she had loved, nay -worshipped, as she had her husband, a very different being, living a -life solely for him, and leaving a memory that the fair girl could -awaken. - -Maybelle was all but overwhelmed with astonishment and a sweet timidity -when Ruth told her that Erskine wanted to see her for a little while in -his library. - -"Not alone!" she said. "Without you, I mean? Oh! Am I not almost afraid? -I mean, I shall not know what to say to him. It is all so recent, you -see. I can see his beautiful character shining through his sorrow; dear -Mrs. Burnham, I admire him almost as much as even his mother could wish, -but I can see that a great crushing sorrow is heavy upon him, and a girl -like me does not know how to touch such wounds without hurting. Does he -mean to talk to me about her, do you think? Does he know that I loved -her and prayed for her all the time? Oh, dear friend, don't you think he -wants you too?" - -Ruth kissed her tenderly, solemnly, and put her away from her. "No, -dear," she said gently. "He wants to see you quite alone. He has -something to tell you. You will know what to say after you have heard -him; God will show you." - -She closed the door after the slowly moving, half-reluctant, serious -girl, and sat alone. It came to her vaguely, as one used to sacrifice, -that here was another. She must sit alone with folded hands while -another, and she a young girl upon whom he had never before set eyes, -went down with her son into the depths of human pain. Was it always so? -Was that forever the lot of motherhood, to stand aside and have some one -else touch the deepest life of her children, whether in joy or pain? - -The interview was long, very long. Sometimes it seemed to the waiting -mother that she could not endure the strain; that she must go to that -closed room and discover for herself what those two were saying to -torture each other. But at last, the door across the hall opened and -Maybelle came with swift feet and knelt in front of her, hid her face in -the older woman's lap, and broke into a passion of weeping. - -At first Ruth let the storm of pain roll on unchecked, only touching the -bowed head with soothing hand and murmuring:-- - -"Poor child! dear little girl!" - -But the girl cried on, and on, as though she would never stop, her whole -slight frame shaken with the force of her sorrow. - -Across the hall Ruth could hear the steady tread of her son's footsteps -as he paced back and forth, fighting his battle alone. Should his mother -go and try to comfort him? But this motherless one was clinging to her. - -"Maybelle," she said at last, "is it a hopeless grief? Is there no One -who can help?" - -Then the girl made a desperate effort to control herself. She reached -for Ruth's hand and gripped it in her young, strong one. Then, after -another moment, she spoke:-- - -"Forgive me. I did not mean to hurt you; I did not mean to cry at all; I -said that I would not; but it was all so new, so--O mamma, mamma!" - -The head, which had been raised a little, went down again; and the -exceeding bitterness of that last wailing cry of renunciation Ruth never -forgot. She had grace to be thankful that the mother was not there to -hear it. - -But the violence of the storm was over, at least so far as its outward -exhibition was concerned. In a few minutes more the girl spoke quietly -enough. - -"He is very, very good. I did not know that any--just human being could -be so good. And he spoke tenderly all the time of--of my mother. I could -feel in his voice the sound of his great love for her. My poor, poor -mother!" - -Later, after much had been said and there had been silence between them -for a few minutes, she spoke suddenly:-- - -"He asked me to call him 'father,' he said he wanted it." Ruth could not -suppress a little start of surprise and--was it pain? In all her hours -of thinking over this whole tragedy, trying to plan how all things would -be, she had not thought of this. Yet it was like Erskine; the utmost -atonement that he could make, in word as well as deed, would be made. - -"What did you say in reply?" she asked the waiting girl. - -"I said that I would try to do in all things just as he advised. I could -not do less, Mrs. Burnham; he is very good. I told him about my own dear -papa, and that I should always, _always_ love and honor him as I had -reason to; and he was good about that, too; he said that the way I felt -about him was not only natural but it was right, and that he honored me -for it. Then he spoke of Baby Erskine and called him my little brother; -and that broke my heart. I have so longed to have some one of my very -own. Mrs. Burnham, do you think perhaps that--that papa understands -about it all, and would want me to--" - -She seemed unable to express her thought in words, but Ruth understood -it, and the yearning wistfulness in the child's voice was not to be -resisted. The older woman put aside her own pain to comfort and counsel -this girl who had certainly in strange ways been thrust upon her care. - -A thought of comfort came to her, that, after a little hesitation, she -gave to the girl. - -"Maybelle dear, if you call my son 'father,' what name does that give to -me as my rightful possession?" - -She had her reward. There was a moment's wondering thought, then a flush -of surprise and a wave of radiance swept over the expressive face. She -spoke the word in a whisper, almost a reverent one, yet the syllables -were like a caress, and thrilled with joy:-- - -"'Grandmother'! Oh! do you mean it? that I may?" And then the caresses -that Ruth received were almost as sweet as any that she was waiting for -Baby Erskine to voluntarily bestow upon her. - - - - - CHAPTER XXX - - "TWO, AND TWO, AND TWO" - - -IT took but a little while for the Burnham household to settle down -quietly to routine living; so easily, after all, does human nature -adjust itself to tremendous strains and changes. Maybelle fitted into -her place as though she had always been an acknowledged daughter of the -house, come home after long absence. And the neighbors, even those -morbidly curious ones, of which there are always a few in every -community, took kindly to the new order of things and to the -bright-faced stranger who rode and drove and walked and appeared in -church with Erskine and his mother, and was introduced with punctilious -care as "My wife's daughter, Miss Somerville." - -They could not help, even from the first, saying kind and complimentary -things about the beautiful young face, and after a few days of -wonderment and conjecture they arranged their own story--with a very -meagre array of facts to build upon--quite to their satisfaction. - -"Oh, yes, I knew she was a widow when he married her; but I never heard -of a child." - -"Well, he married abroad, don't you know, and I suppose the girl just -stayed on, with her relatives. Her mother must have been a mere child -when she was first married; though this girl is very young, and Mrs. -Burnham was probably older than she looked; for that matter, don't you -know, I always said that she looked older than her husband? I suppose -the girl has lived abroad all her life; that's what makes her look -different, some way, from American girls, though her mother was born in -this country, she told me so. Still, the girl would have English ways, -of course, always living there. Did you hear her say the other day that -the Somerville brothers, great English bankers that Ned Lake was asking -her about, were her uncles?" - -"It seems hard that the poor girl couldn't have been with her mother -before she died," said one whose interests ran naturally in other -channels than those of ages and pedigrees. - -"Yes, it does," chimed in another home-keeping and home-loving matron, -"but then her death was awfully sudden. Erskine's mother told me that -they had no idea of her dying up to the very day; and I guess the girl -has been separated from her a good deal. I have heard somewhere, and I -am sure I don't remember where, that there was a fuss of some sort in -the family. Probably her first husband's people didn't like the idea of -her going into society and marrying again, especially marrying an -American; English people are queer about some things, I have heard; I -suppose they held on to the girl as long as they could." - -Thus, with supposition and surmise, and a stray fact now and then, and -vague remembrances, the story was worked over and shaped and pieced -until it suited them. Meantime, the Burnham family went quietly on its -way, having no confidants, and, while they spoke only truth when they -spoke at all, judging it not necessary to tell the whole truth to any. - -So quiet and peace settled once more upon Ruth Burnham's home, and it -was proved again, as it often is, that a new grave in the family burial -ground is more productive of peace than a life has been. - -Erskine was habitually grave, and his mother told herself sorrowfully -that sin, not death, had permanently shadowed his life. But by degrees -his gravity took on a cheerful tone, and Baby Erskine, whom at first he -had almost shunned, became a never failing source of comfort to him. - -As for Maybelle, no grown-up daughter was ever more devoted to a -father's interests than she became. She hovered about his home life with -an air of sweet, grave deference, ministering to his tastes with -unlimited thoughtfulness and tact, until from being to him an infliction -for whose comfort he must be thoughtful from a sense of duty, she became -first an interest, and then almost a necessity. The neighbors said how -lovely it was in her to take her mother's place so beautifully. - -Then, of course, there were some to say that they shouldn't wonder if -she should succeed at last in comforting him entirely for his loss. -Wouldn't it be romantic if he should marry her! Of course she was really -not related to him at all, and great difference in age was much more -common than it used to be. For that matter, Erskine Burnham was still a -young man. For their part, they agreed almost to a woman, that it would -be a nice idea-- - -But all that was before they made the acquaintance of Erskine Roberts. -That young man was true to his word, and in the course of time came -across the continent. That he came after Maybelle, as he had said he -would, was perfectly obvious, but he did not take her back with him, as -at one time he had tried to plan to do. - -He had two more years to spend at the theological seminary, and during -those two years it had been agreed by all concerned that Maybelle was to -continue to bless her new home with her presence. - -Erskine Roberts was one of the very few to whom the whole situation had -been fully and carefully explained. Not only Maybelle, but Ruth herself -had written the story, both to Erskine, and his mother; and then, when -his namesake came out to them, the other Erskine had him into his -private room one evening, and as he believed was his duty toward the man -who was to make Maybelle his wife, went down with him into the lowest -depths of his life tragedy. And Erskine Roberts, who had been half angry -with the man ever since he had heard the strange story--though he -admitted all the time to his secret soul that Erskine Burnham had been -in no wise to blame, went over loyally and royally to his side, and said -to Ruth while his honest eyes filmed with something like tears and his -voice was husky:-- - -"Aunt Ruth, it must be a grand thing for a mother to have a son like -that man across the hall. If I can be half like him in true nobility, my -mother will have reason to be proud." - -And he even admitted to Maybelle that, since he could not have her to -himself yet awhile, he was glad that that man who was worthy that she -should call him father was to have the comfort of her. - -It was noticeable to themselves that they said very little about the -mother. Poor mother! she had forfeited her right to be talked of in the -tender and reverent way that Maybelle would have talked, or with the -passion of longing for something had, and lost, that used to mark her -words to Ruth. She said that word "mamma" no more; the tone in which she -used to speak it had been peculiar, and had marked it as set apart for a -special and sacred use. Evidently it meant more to her than the word -"mother," or at least meant something different. Now, in speaking to -Ruth, she said always: "My mother," and said it in a hesitating, -half-deprecating tone, almost as if she must apologize for her. - -It was not that the girl was bitter; on the contrary she was markedly -tender of her mother's memory and pitiful toward her. - -Ruth, with the reflex influence of this upon her, found herself -searching for all the lovable qualities in Irene that she could by any -possibility recall, and by degrees it appeared that death was having its -inevitable and gracious influence over hearts, softening the past and -casting a halo of excusing pity over that which had at the time seemed -unpardonable. But her daughter never again said in a passion of -exquisite tenderness: "My mamma!" - -She had learned to say "father," and used the word with a shy grace that -was fascinating; she had learned also what was of far more consequence: -to have the utmost respect for and faith in the man to whom she gave the -title. Respect deepened steadily into love, and he became indeed -"father" to her, in her very thought. Yet she never put into the word -the throbbing love that had shone in the words "My papa!" - -They were a peaceful household, with a fair and steadily increasing -measure of happiness. "Baby Erskine," as they still called him and -probably would, his father said, until he was ready for college, lived -his beautiful, carefully ordered life, blossoming into all the graces -and sweetnesses of judiciously trained and sheltered childhood, and -being familiarized with all the sweet interests and excitements that -belong to a baby beloved. His first tooth, his first step, his first -definite word were as eagerly watched for and as joyously heralded as -though a fond mother had been there to lead. Never had child a more -devoted sister and admirer and willing slave than Maybelle; and no words -ever expressed more exultant pride and joy than those in which she -introduced him to transient guests: "My little brother." - -She labored patiently by the hour to teach the boy to shout "Papa!" as -soon as he caught a glimpse from the window of the man who would -presently ride him upstairs on his proud shoulder; but they never tried -to train the baby lips to say "mamma." - -"I am glad," said Maybelle one day, breaking suddenly into speech in a -way she had, over a train of thought, the steps by which she had reached -it being kept to herself: "I am glad that he will always have the -dearest and wisest of grandmothers close at hand." - -Ruth smiled indulgently. - -"By inference," she said, "I am led to believe that you are speaking of -Baby Erskine and his grandmother, and am duly grateful for the -compliment, but the last remark you made was about the climbing roses on -the south porch. Am I to be told or simply be left to imagine the steps -by which you reached from rosebuds to Baby Erskine?" - -Maybelle laughed softly. "The transition was not so very great, dear -doting grandmother! Confess that you think so." Then, the color -deepening a little in her face, she added:-- - -"I was thinking, dear, of our home here, and of the coming changes, and -of other--possibilities. To be entirely frank, I thought of a possible -second mother for Baby Erskine. Father is still so young that one cannot -help thinking sometimes of possibilities. And then, even though I want -you so much, I could not help being glad that in any such event you -would be close to Baby Erskine." - -Ruth held from outward notice any hint of the sudden stricture at her -heart over these quiet words, and said cheerfully:-- - -"The near at hand probabilities are crowding us so hard just now, -darling, that I don't think we have room for remote possibilities; let -us leave the unknown future, dear child, to One who knows." - -It was true that the coming changes were almost beginning to crowd upon -them. The climbing rose bushes over the south porch were even thus early -thinking of budding; which meant that June and Flossy Roberts and her -family would be with them in two months more. - -Time had flown on swift wing after all. It hardly seemed possible that -the young man, who had seemed to begin his theological studies but -yesterday, was already receiving letters addressed to "The Reverend -Erskine Shipley Roberts!" - -One shadow Maybelle had, and Ruth understood it well, although it was -rarely mentioned between them. Erskine Burnham, the very soul of -unselfish thoughtfulness for others, had yet held with unaccountable -tenacity to one strange feeling. He shrank with evident pain from the -thought of Mamie Parker's presence in the house. She had returned from -China early in the previous year, and Maybelle's first eager hope that -"Aunt Mamie would come to them at once" for a stay of indefinite length -had been wonderingly put aside upon the discovery that "father" -apparently shrank from even the mention of her name. - -He made a painful effort to explain to his mother. - -"Of course, mamma, I do not mean for one moment to stand in the way of -anything that you and Maybelle really want, and I do not know that I can -explain to you why I feel as I do; but--she is associated, painfully -associated, as you know, with that which is like the bitterness of death -to me. And I cannot--We will not talk about it, mamma." - -Ruth understood and was sorry for the morbid strain which it revealed. -She made earnest effort to combat it, not vigorously but with suggestive -sentences as occasion offered. It hurt her that Erskine should allow so -comparatively small a matter to retard his progress. He had not only -gone bravely through his peculiar trial, but had made a distinct advance -in his spiritual life. Maybelle's constant prayer for him had assuredly -been answered. The Lord Christ had, manifestly, a stronger grip on his -personality than ever before. All the details of business and literary -life were learning from day to day that they were not to be masters but -servants to this man, and that One was his Master. - -But this sore spot which could not be touched without pain, his mother -felt sure would continue to burn as long as he hid it away. If he could -know Mamie Parker as she now was, it was almost certain that the sting -of pain and shame which her name suggested would lose its power. - -But Maybelle felt sure that Aunt Mamie would never come unless invited -by the host. - -"And I can't want her to, grandmother, much as I long to see her, so -long as her presence is not quite comfortable to father." - -So the grandmother bided her time, and spoke her occasional earnest -words. - -"In short, mamma," Erskine said one morning, turning from the window -where he had been standing a silent listener to what she had to say, "In -short, mamma, you are ashamed of your son, are you not? And I don't -wonder; he is rather ashamed of himself. You have been very patient, you -and Maybelle, but this whole thing must cease. Of course the child must -have her friend with her. Invite her, mamma, in my name, to come at once -and remain through the season. I want it to be so. I do, indeed, now -that I have settled it; make Maybelle understand that I do." - -After he had left the room he turned back to say pointedly:-- - -"Of course, mamma, it will not be necessary for me to see very much of -her; but I shall try to do my duty as host." - -She saw how hard it was for him, but she rejoiced with all her heart at -this triumph over the morbid strain. - -And Mamie Parker came; and was met in due form by her host and treated -in every respect as became an honored guest. - -There came an evening when Ruth sat alone by the open window of her -room. She had turned out the lights, for the room was flooded with -moonlight. It outlined distinctly the little white bed in an alcove -opening from her room, where her darling lay sleeping. She had just been -in to look at him, and had resisted the temptation to kiss once more the -fair cheeks flushed with healthy sleep. Downstairs in the little -reception room she knew that Maybelle and Erskine Roberts were saying a -few last words together; the girl and the boy who, to-morrow, would -begin together the mystery of manhood and womanhood, "until death did -them part." From time to time she could hear Maybelle's soft laughter -float out on the quiet air; they were very happy together, those two. - -From one of the guest chambers near at hand the murmur of voices came to -her occasionally. It was growing late, and most of the guests had -retired early to make ready by rest for the excitements of the morrow; -but sleep had evidently not come yet to Flossy and her husband. They -were talking softly. They were happy together, those two. Downstairs on -the long vine-covered south porch two people were walking; the murmur of -their voices as they walked and talked came up to her, Mamie Parker's -voice, and Erskine's. And the mother knew, almost as well as though she -could hear the words, some of the things they were saying to each other. - -"Mommie," her son had said but a little while before as he bent over and -kissed his boy, and then turned and put both arms about her and kissed -her, using the old name that of late had almost dropped away from him:-- - -"Mommie, can you give me your blessing and wish me Godspeed?" - -She had not pretended to misunderstand him. She had known for days, it -almost seemed to her that she had known before he did, the trend that -his life was taking. There had been no word between them, but Erskine -had told her once, that he believed she knew his thoughts almost as soon -as they were born, and he seemed to take her knowledge for granted. - -She was glad that she had controlled her voice, and that her answer had -been quick and free:-- - -"Yes, indeed, my son; God bless and prosper you." - -She knew he would be prospered. At least a woman knows a woman's heart. -They would be happy together, they two. - -Two, and two, and two, everywhere! the youth and maiden, the mature man -and woman, the father and mother who were smiling together over their -son's espousals, always "they two." - -It had been "they two" once with her. And again, and for many years, -mother and son; but now--It seemed for a moment to the lonely woman as -though the whole world beside was paired and wedded and only herself -left desolate. She pressed her hands firmly against the balls of her -closed eyes. Should she let one tear mar this night of her son's new -joy? - -And then, tenderly, like drops of balm upon an aching wound, came the -echo in her soul of an old, _old_ pledge: "With everlasting -loving-kindness will I have mercy on thee, said the Lord, thy -Redeemer... I will betroth thee unto me in faithfulness." - -"I am a happy woman," she said aloud, in a quiet voice; "I am blessed in -my home, and in my--children, and in the abiding presence of my Lord." - - - - - =THE PANSY BOOKS.= - - =NOTE.--The Books in each of the series marked with a brace are - connected stories.= - - - =Ester Ried Series= - - {Ester Ried Asleep and Awake - {Julia Ried Listening and Led - {The King's Daughter - {Wise and Otherwise - {Ester Ried Yet Speaking - $1.50 each - - - =Chautauqua Series= - - {Four Girls at Chautauqua - {Chautauqua Girls at Home - {Ruth Erskine's Crosses - {Judge Burnham's Daughters - The Hall in the Grove - Eighty-Seven - $1.50 each - - - =General Series= - - {Chrissy's Endeavor - {Her Associate Members - {Household Puzzles - {The Randolphs - An Endless Chain - Three People - Interrupted - A New Graft on the Family Tree - Mrs. Solomon Smith Looking On - Spun from Fact - One Commonplace Day - The Pocket Measure - Links in Rebeeca's Life - Stephen Mitchell's Journey - "Wanted" - $1.50 each - Cunning Workmen - Miss Priscilla Hunter - What She Said and What She Meant - $1.25 each - - Mrs. Harry Harper's Awakening - $1.00 - - - =By Pansy and Mrs. Livingston= - - Divers Women - Profiles - {Aunt Hannah and Martha and John - {John Remington, Martyr - $1.50 each - - - =By Pansy and Faye Huntington= - - From Different Standpoints - Modern Prophets - $1.50 each - - - =By Pansy and - Her Friends= - - A Sevenfold Trouble - $1.50 - - - =Juvenile Books= - - Tip Lewis and His Lamp - Little Fishers and their Nets - The Man of the House - Christie's Christmas - Miss Dee Dunmore Bryant - Sidney Martin's Christmas - Twenty Minutes Late - Only Ten Cents - $1.50 each - - Grandpa's Darlings - $1.25 - - Next Things - At Home and Abroad - In the Woods and Out - $1.00 each - - Bernie's White Chicken - Helen Lester - Docia's Journal - Jessie Wells - Monteagle - Couldn't be Bought - Mary Burton Abroad - Six Little Girls - 75 cents each - - - =Golden Text Stories= - - Her Mother's Bible - We Twelve Girls - Browning Boys - Dozen of Them (A) - Gertrude's Diary - Hedge Fence (A) - Side by Side - Six O'clock in the Evening - Exact Truth - Helen the Historian - Little Card - 50 cents each - - - =The Pansy Primary - Libraries= - - Pansy Primary Library No. 1. 30 vols., $7.50 net. - Pansy Primary Library No. 2. 20 vols., $5.00 net. - Pansy Primary Library No. 3. 12 vols., $3.00 net. - Pansy Primary Library No. 4. 12 vols., $3.00 net. - - - =LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., Boston= - - - - - =BOOKS BY ANNIE H. RYDER.= - - -=Hold up Your Heads, Girls!= - - _12mo, cloth, $1.00._ - -"The author of 'Hold up your Heads, Girls!' has, in the treatment of a -very important subject, invested it with an interest and brightness -which will make it pleasant and even fascinating reading for the class -of young people to whom it is addressed. In the eleven chapters of which -the contents consist there is more sound practical advice, sensibly put, -on points of every-day interest to girls, than we have ever before seen -put into the same number of pages. It is a book for study, for -companionship, and the girl who reads it thoughtfully and with an intent -to profit by it will get more real help and good from it than from a -term at the best boarding-school in the country."--_Boston Transcript._ - - -=Margaret Regis and some other Girls.= - - _12mo, illustrated, $1.25._ - -"The college life of young women is described in this book in a very -entertaining way, and in a spirit the most wholesome and cheerful. -Margaret Regis is a splendid creation of the author's fancy, just such a -young woman as all of us like to read about. In her schooldays she is -not different from others. There is a shade of profound thought in her -description of this period of life: 'She is like the many, many girls, -increasing in numbers every year, who, unfixed and restless, go into -college or the office, with a vague determination to do something that -shall make them independent or superior to the greatest number of girls, -but with no definite idea of how they are to use the knowledge and -experience they gain.' Margaret Regis does not remain long in this -unsettled state. She is emphatically a woman with a purpose. How its -current was turned from the intended course makes an interesting -narrative which the reader will find full of profit."--_Cleveland -Leader._ - - -=New Every Morning.= - - A Year Book for Girls. Edited by Annie H. Ryder. - - _Square 16mo, cloth, $1.00; gilt, $1.25; limp, seal, - $2.50._ - -A book of choice reading for girls for every day in the year. - -"There is a happy blending of practical common sense, pure sentiment and -simple religious fervor."--_Education, Boston._ - - - =BOSTON: - LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.= - - - - - =WHEN GRANDMAMMA - WAS FOURTEEN= - - By MARION HARLAND - - WITH FOUR FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS AND NUMEROUS PICTURES - IN THE TEXT PRICE $1.25 - - _Later adventures of the heroine of - "WHEN GRANDMAMMA WAS NEW."_ - -THOSE who recall this noted author's delightful story, "When Grandmamma -was New," will be glad to hear that in this book are the adventures of -the heroine at a later period. Through the eyes of fourteen-year-old -Molly Burwell, the reader sees much that is quaint, amusing and pathetic -in ante-bellum Richmond, and the story has all the charm of manner and -rich humanity which are characteristic of Marion Harland. All -healthy-hearted children will delight in the story, and so will their -parents. - - - =WHEN GRANDMAMMA WAS NEW= - -_The Story of a Virginia Girlhood in the Forties_ - -By MARION HARLAND 12mo Illustrated Price $1.25 - -=The BOSTON JOURNAL says:= - -"If only one might read it first with the trained enjoyment of the -'grown-up' mind that is 'at leisure from itself,' and then if one might -withdraw into ten-year-old-dom once more and seek the shadow of the -friendly apple-tree, and revel in it all over again, taste it all just -as the child tastes, and find it luscious! For this book has charm and -piquancy. And it is in just this vivid remembrance of a child's mental -workings, in just the avoidance of all 'writing down' to the supposed -level of a child's mind, that this story has its rare attractiveness. It -is bright, winsome, and magnetic." - -=The INTERIOR, Chicago, says:= - -"'Grandmamma' may have charmed other folks,--has charmed them all, -incontrovertibly,--but she has never tried harder to be vivid and -dramatic and entertaining, and to leave a sweet kernel of application, -withal, than in these memory-tales of a sunny childhood on a big -Virginia plantation. It is a book which will delight, not children -alone, but all such as have the child heart and a tender memory of when -they were 'new.'" - - AT ALL BOOKSELLERS, OR SENT POSTPAID ON RECEIPT - OF PRICE BY THE PUBLISHERS - - - =LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON= - - - - - =A Little Maid of Concord - Town= - - A Romance of the American Revolution - - By MARGARET SIDNEY. One volume, 12mo, - illustrated by F. T. Merrill, $1.50 - -A DELIGHTFUL Revolutionary romance of life, love and adventure in old -Concord. The author lived for fifteen years in the home of Hawthorne, in -Concord, and knows the interesting town thoroughly. - -Debby Parlin, the heroine, lived in a little house on the Lexington -Road, still standing, and was surrounded by all the stir and excitement -of the months of preparation and the days of action at the beginning of -our struggle for freedom. - - - =By Way of the Wilderness= - - By "PANSY" (Mrs. G. R. Alden) and MRS. - C. M. LIVINGSTON. 12mo, cloth, illustrated by - Charlotte Harding, $1.50 - -This story of Wayne Pierson and how he evaded or met the tests of -misunderstanding, environment, false position, opportunity and -self-pride; how he lost his father and found him again, almost lost his -home and found it again, almost lost himself and found alike his -manhood, his conscience and his heart is told us in Pansy's best vein, -ably supplemented by Mrs. Livingston's collaboration. - - - - - THE - FAMOUS PEPPER BOOKS - - By Margaret Sidney - - IN ORDER OF PUBLICATION - - -=Five Little Peppers and How they Grew.= Cloth, 12 mo, illustrated, -$1.50, postpaid. - -This was an instantaneous success; it has become a genuine child -classic. - - -=Five Little Peppers Midway.= Cloth, 12mo, illustrated, $1.50, postpaid. - -"A perfect Cheeryble of a book."--_Boston Herald._ - - -=Five Little Peppers Grown Up.= Cloth, 12mo, illustrated, $1.50, -postpaid. - -This shows the Five Little Peppers as "grown up," with all the struggles -and successes of young manhood and womanhood. - - -=Phronsie Pepper.= Cloth, 12mo, illustrated, $1.50, postpaid. - -It is the story of Phronsie, the youngest and dearest of all the -Peppers. - - -=The Stories Polly Pepper Told.= Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated by Jessie -McDermott and Etheldred B. Barry. $1.50, postpaid. - -Wherever there exists a child or a "grown-up," there will be a welcome -for these charming and delightful "Stories Polly Pepper Told." - - -=The Adventures of Joel Pepper.= Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated by Sears -Gallagher. $1.50, postpaid. - -As bright and just as certain to be a child's favorite as the others in -the famous series. Harum-scarum "Joey" is lovable. - - -=Five Little Peppers Abroad.= Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated by Fanny Y. Cory. -$1.50, postpaid. - -The "Peppers Abroad" adds another most delightful book to this famous -series. - - -=Five Little Peppers at School.= Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated by Hermann -Heyer. Price, $1.50; postpaid. - -Of all the fascinating adventures and experiences of the "Peppers," none -will surpass those contained in this volume. - - -=Five Little Peppers and Their Friends.= Illustrated by Eugenie M. -Wireman. Cloth, 12mo, $1.50; postpaid. - -The friends of the Peppers are legion, and the number will be further -increased by this book. - - -=Ben Pepper.= Illustrated by Eugenie M. Wireman. Cloth, 12mo, $1.50. - -This story centres about Ben, "the quiet, steady-as-a-rock boy," while -the rest of the Peppers help to make it as bright and pleasing as its -predecessors. - - - LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY - - - - - =THE GIRL WHO KEPT UP= - - By MARY McCRAE CUTLER - - Illustrated by C. Louise Williams. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25 - -[Illustration] - -This is a strong, wholesome story of achievement. The end of a high -school course divides the paths of a boy and girl who have been close -friends and keen rivals. The youth is to go to college, while the girl, -whose family is in humbler circumstances, must remain at home and help. -She sees that her comrade will feel that he is out-growing her, and she -determines to and does _keep up_ with him in obtaining an education. - -"The story is human to the least phase of it, and it is told with such -simple force and vivacity that its effect is strong and positive. The -pictures of college and home life are true bits of realism. It is an -excellent piece of work."--_Bookseller, Newsdealer and Stationer, New -York._ - -"The story is well told, and is thoroughly helpful in every -respect."--_Epworth Herald, Chicago._ - -"The telling of the story is attractive, and will be found helpful to -all readers."--_The Baptist Union, Chicago._ - -"Let us recommend this book for young people for the excellent lesson of -honest striving and noble doing that it clearly conveys."--_Boston -Courier._ - -"It is a healthy and inspiring story."--_Brooklyn Eagle._ - -"The tale is full of good lesson for all young people."--_Boston -Beacon._ - -"The story will be both pleasant and profitable to the youth of both -sexes."--_Louisville Courier-Journal._ - - - _For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by_ - - LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., Boston - - - - - =The Laurel Token= - A Story of the Yamassee Uprising - - By ANNIE M. BARNES - Author of "Little Betty Blew" and "A Lass of Dorchester" - - Illustrated by G. W. Picknell 12mo Cloth $1.25 - -[Illustration] - -This is a book for young people of either sex, for, although the leading -character is a girl of eighteen, her cousins, two boys of sixteen and -fourteen respectively, are prominent throughout the story, which centres -about a beautiful girl, left an orphan, as is supposed, in Barbados, who -goes to live with her uncle, a leading man in the flourishing "Goose -Creek" colony, in the year of the Indian uprising, 1714. The very real -danger from the red men, who have been regarded as friendly, but have -been the victims of selfishness, and thus made ready tools for the -crafty Spanish having their headquarters at St. Augustine, forms the -background to the story, and gives opportunity for the surprising -developments which occur respecting the heroine and others. The -illustrations by Mr. Picknell are very accurate in their composition, -besides being finely executed. - - - =An Honor Girl= - By EVELYN RAYMOND Illustrated by - Bertha G. Davidson 12mo Cloth $1.25 - -[Illustration] - -A bright, helpful story of a girl who, as the valedictorian and "honor -girl" of her class at high school, wins a scholarship which would take -her through Wellesley College. Family reverses bring it home to her that -_duty_ demands that she devote herself to helping her parents and -wayward brother to face the future better than they seem likely to. She -heroically surrenders her prize, with its glowing prospects, to a -jealous rival, and with a brave humor says that she has matriculated in -the College of Life, the hard features of which she happily styles the -"faculty," with "Professor Poverty" prominent among them. These prove -excellent teachers, aided by "Professor Cheerfulness." Kind friends are -won by her courage, her brother achieves manly character, and the family -are finally re-established on the road to prosperity: all better, -happier, and more to each other than had selfishness not been so well -met and overcome by "An Honor Girl." - - _For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by - the publishers._ - - LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., Boston - - - - -=JOY BELLS A Story of Quinnebasset= - -By SOPHIE MAY Illustrated by FRANK T. MERRILL 12mo Cloth $1.25 - -[Illustration] - -The thousands of admirers of the "Quinnebasset" books have had to wait a -long time for another, but this new story is well worth waiting for. All -the delightful wit of the author is here and at its best, and "Persis," -the heroine, is very near to being the most charming of all her gifted -creations. The scene is laid in the fifties. There are thrilling -incidents, and also mysteries and suspicions, but all these are finally -unravelled and allayed by the persistent efforts of the heroine. - - -=PAULINE WYMAN= - -By SOPHIE MAY Cloth Illustrated $1.25 - -In "Pauline Wyman" the author has drawn a typical New England girl whose -strong and beautiful character is developed by her environment. How she -overcomes unfavorable surroundings, her experience in teaching school, -the interesting circumstances in a young girl's life are all told with -the same originality and freshness which have drawn a multitude of young -people to the author's previous work. - - -=MADGE A GIRL IN EARNEST= - -By S. JENNIE SMITH 12mo Cloth Illustrated by JAMES E. MCBURNEY -$1.25 - -Madge is indeed "a girl in earnest." She scorns the patronage of an -aristocratic relative and takes upon her strong young shoulders the -problem of carrying along the family in an independent manner. Her -bravely won success, in spite of the lions in her path, not the least of -which was the fear of social disfavor felt by some of her family, forms -an inspiring tale. An unusual amount of practical information is -presented in a thoroughly entertaining manner, and the character-drawing -is remarkably true and strong. - - - =For sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of price - by the publishers= - - =LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON= - - - - -[Illustration] - - =We Four Girls= - - By MARY G. DARLING 12mo Cloth Illustrated by BERTHA G. DAVIDSON - $1.25 - -"We Four Girls" is a bright story of a summer vacation in the country, -where these girls were sent for study and recreation. The story has -plenty of natural incidents; and a mild romance, in which they are all -interested, and of which their teacher is the principal person, gives -interest to the tale. They thought it the most delightful summer they -ever passed. - - -[Illustration] - - =A Girl of this Century= - - By MARY G. DARLING Cloth Illustrated by LILIAN CRAWFORD TRUE - $1.25 - -The same characters that appear in "We Four Girls" are retained in this -story, the interest centering around "Marjorie," the natural leader of -the four. She has a brilliant course at Radcliffe, and then comes the -world. A romance, long resisted, but worthy in nature and of happy -termination, crowns this singularly well-drawn life of the noblest of -all princesses--a true American girl. - - - =Beck's Fortune A Story of School and Seminary Life= - - By ADELE E. THOMPSON Cloth Illustrated $1.25 - -The characters in this book seem to live, their remarks are bright and -natural, and the incidental humor delightful. The account of Beck's -narrow and cheerless early life, her sprightly independence, and -unexpected competency that aids her to progress through the medium of -seminary life to noble womanhood, is one that mothers can commend to -their daughters unreservedly. - - - For sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of price - by the publishers - - =LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON= - - - - - =BRAVE HEART SERIES= - - By Adele E. Thompson - - -=Betty Seldon, Patriot= - - Illustrated 12mo Cloth $1.25 - -A BOOK that is at the same time fascinating and noble. Historical -events are accurately traced leading up to the surrender of Cornwallis -at Yorktown, with reunion and happiness for all who deserve it. - - -=Brave Heart Elizabeth= - - Illustrated 12mo Cloth $1.25 - -IT is a story of the making of the Ohio frontier, much of it taken from -life, and the heroine one of the famous Zane family after which -Zanesville, O., takes its name. An accurate, pleasing, and yet at times -intensely thrilling picture of the stirring period of border settlement. - - -[Illustration] - -=A Lassie of the Isles= - - Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy - 12mo Cloth $1.25 - -THIS is the romantic story of Flora Macdonald, the lassie of Skye, who -aided in the escape of Charles Stuart, otherwise known as the "Young -Pretender," for which she suffered arrest, but which led to signal honor -through her sincerity and attractive personality. - - -=Polly of the Pines= - -[Illustration] - - Illustrated by - Henry Roth Cloth 12mo $1.25 - -"POLLY OF THE PINES" was Mary Dunning, a brave girl of the Carolinas, -and the events of the story occur in the years 1775-82. Polly was an -orphan living with her mother's family, who were Scotch Highlanders, and -for the most part intensely loyal to the Crown. Polly finds the glamor -of royal adherence hard to resist, but her heart turns towards the -patriots and she does much to aid and encourage them. - - - _For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt - of price by the publishers_ - - =LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON= - - - - - Transcriber Notes: - -Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_. - -Passages in bold were indicated by =equal signs=. - -Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS. - -Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of -the speakers. Those words were retained as-is. - -The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up -paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate. Thus -the page number of the illustration might not match the page number in -the List of Illustrations, and the order of illustrations may not be the -same in the List of Illustrations and in the book. - -Errors in punctuation and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected -unless otherwise noted. - -On the title page, a quotation mark was added before "Ester -Ried". - -On page 46, "conisdered" was replaced with "considered". - -On page 70, a period was added after "Mrs". - -On page 73, "reestablished" was replaced with "reestablished". - -On page 228, the quotation mark after "let him in" was deleted. - -On page 240, "Esrkine" was replaced with "Erskine". - -On page 246, the period after "calamity for a man" was replaced with -a question mark. - -On page 284, the quotation mark after "I can ever hope to" was removed. - -On page 327, a quotation mark was added before "It is as balmy as -spring. - -In the advertisement for WHEN GRANDMAMA WAS NEW, kernal was replaced -with kernel. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ruth Erskine's Son, by -Pansy and Isabella MacDonald Alden - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUTH ERSKINE'S SON *** - -***** This file should be named 43785.txt or 43785.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/7/8/43785/ - -Produced by Charlene Taylor, Ernest Schaal, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -book was produced from scanned images of public domain -material from the Google Print project.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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