.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 48337
   :PG.Title: Her Lord and Master
   :PG.Released: 2015-02-21
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Martha Morton
   :MARCREL.ill: Howard Chandler Christy
   :MARCREL.ill: Esther Mac Namara
   :DC.Title: Her Lord and Master
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1902
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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HER LORD AND MASTER
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   .. _`"You locked me out!" she said, hysterically.`:

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   [Frontispiece: "You locked me out!" she said, hysterically. 
   (missing from book)]

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      *HER LORD
      AND MASTER*

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      *By MARTHA MORTON*

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      *Illustrated by*

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      *HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY
      and ESTHER MAC NAMARA*

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      *R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
      18 East Seventeenth Street, NEW YORK*

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      Copyright, 1902
      By
      ANTHONY J. DREXEL BIDDLE

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      Entered at Stationers' Hall, London

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      All Rights Reserved

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   Contents

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CHAPTER

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I.—`A Reunion`_
II.—`Birds of Passage`_
III.—`On a Model Farm`_
IV.—`Springtime`_
V.—`Camp Indiana`_
VI.—`Guests`_
VII.—`The Weaver`_
VIII.—`The World's Rest`_
IX.—`In an Orchard of the Memory`_
X.—`The Might of the Falls`_
XI.—`A Moonlight Picnic`_
XII.—`Leading to the Altar`_
XIII.—`England`_
XIV.—`Transplantation`_
XV.—`"I Shall Keep My Promise"`_
XVI.—`An Escapade`_
XVII.—`Late Visitors`_
XVIII.—`Awakening`_
XIX.—`"And as He Wove, He Heard Singing"`_

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   Illustrations

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`"You locked me out!" she said, hysterically.`_  *Frontispiece*

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`"I'd call the picture, 'Indiana.'"`_

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`Catching Pollywogs`_

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`"I—I—what have I said?  I didn't mean it."`_

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`"I will have love to help me."`_

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   Foreword

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"Her Lord and Master," by Martha Morton,
was first produced in New York, during the
Spring of 1902.  The play met with great success,
and ran for over one hundred nights at the
Manhattan Theatre.

Miss Victoria Morton, the sister of the
playwright, now presents "Her Lord and Master"
as a novel.

The play is being produced in the principal
cities during this season.

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.. _`A Reunion`:

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   CHAPTER I.


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   A Reunion.

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"Did the ladies arrive, Mr. Stillwater?"
inquired the clerk at
the Waldorf Hotel, New York, as a tall,
broad-shouldered man, unmistakably
Western in appearance, walked
smilingly up to the desk.

"Bag and baggage, bless their hearts!"

A dark, distinguished looking man,
who was looking over the register,
glanced at the speaker, then moved
slightly to one side as the latter took up
the pen.  Stillwater registered in a
quick, bold hand, and walked away.
The dark gentleman turned again to
the register and read:

"Horatio Stillwater, Stillwater, Indiana."

"Horatio Stillwater, Stillwater!" he
remarked to the clerk with a cultured
English accent.  "A coincidence, I
presume?"

"Not at all," answered the clerk
laughing.  "That often happens out
West.  You see, Stillwater founded the
town.  He owned most of the land,
besides the largest interests in wheat and
oil.  It's a great wheat and oil centre.
Naturally the town is named after him."

"Naturally," acquiesced the Englishman,
staring blankly at the clerk.  He
lit a cigar and puffed it thoughtfully for
about five minutes, then he exclaimed,
"Extraordinary!"

"Beg pardon?" said the clerk.

"I find it most extraordinary."

"What are you referring to, Lord
Canning?"

"I was referring to what you were
telling me about this gentleman, of
course!"  Lord Canning pointed to
Stillwater on the register.

"Oh!" laughed the clerk, amused
that the facts he had given were still a
matter for reflection.  "Yes, he's one
of our biggest capitalists out West.  The
family are generally here at this time of
the year.  The ladies have just arrived
from Palm Beach."

"Palm Beach?"

"That's south, you know."

"Oh, a winter resort?"

"Exactly."

Lord Canning recommenced his study
of the register.

"Mrs. Horatio Stillwater," he read.
"Stillwater, Indiana.  Miss Indiana
Stillwater."  He reflected a moment.
"Miss Indiana Stillwater, Stillwater,
Indiana.  Here too, is a similarity of
names.  Probably a coincidence and
probably not."  He read on,
"Mrs. Chazy Bunker, Stillwater, Indiana.
Bunker, Bunker!"  He pressed his
hand to his forehead.  "Oh, Bunker
Hill," he thought, with sudden inspiration.

"Miss Indiana Stillwater, Stillwater,
Indiana.  If the town was named after
the father, why should not the State—no,
that could not be.  But the reverse
might be possible."  He addressed the
clerk.

"Would you mind telling me—oh, I
beg your pardon," seeing that the clerk
was very much occupied at that moment—"It
doesn't matter—some other time."  He
turned and lounged easily against
the desk, surveying the people walking
about, with the intentness of a person
new to his surroundings, and still
pondering the question.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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"Now," said Stillwater, after his
family had been duly installed, "let me
look at you.  I'm mighty glad to see
you all again."  He swung his daughter
Indiana up in his arms and kissed her,
then set her on his knee and looked at
her with open admiration.

Mr. Horatio Stillwater had never seen
any reason why he should be ashamed
of his great pride in his only child.
Indiana herself had often been heard to
remark, "Pa has never really recovered
from the shock of my birth.  It was a
case of too much joy.  He thinks I'm
the greatest thing on record."

"Well, folks," he said, "I expect
you're all dead tired."

"Not I," said Mrs. Bunker, his
mother-in-law.  She was a well-formed
woman, with dark, vivacious eyes and a
crown of white hair dressed in the latest
mode.  "I could take the trip all over
again."

"Did you miss us, father?" asked
Mrs. Stillwater, a gentle-looking, pretty
woman, with soft, brown hair and dark
blue eyes like her child's, only Indiana's
were more alert and restless.  "Ma has
lovely eyes," Indiana was in the habit
of remarking.  "She takes them from me."

Mr. Stillwater put Indiana off his
knees and sat by his wife.

"Did I miss you?  Not a little bit."

"Your color's pretty bad, father," she
said, "and you look dead tired.
Perhaps," she rose impulsively, "perhaps
you've been laid up."

"No, ma, no," he placed his big
hands on her shoulders, forcing her
down in her chair.  "I haven't been
laid up.  But I've been feeling mighty queer."

He was immediately overwhelmed by
a torrent of exclamations and questions
from Mrs. Bunker and Indiana, while
his wife sat pale and quiet, with heaving breast.

"No, I don't know what's the matter
with me," he answered.  "No, I can't
describe how I feel.  No, I have not
been to a doctor, and I'm not going.
There, you have it straight.  I don't
believe in them."

"Pa!" said Indiana, taking a stand in
the centre of the room, "I want to say
a few words to you."

"Oh, Lord!" thought Stillwater,
"When Indiana shakes her pompadour
and folds her arms, there's no telling
where she'll end."

"I want to ask you if the sentiments
which you have just expressed are
befitting ones for a man with a family?"

"Mother," said Mrs. Stillwater, "he
always takes your advice, tell him he
should consult a doctor."

"Indiana has the floor!" said Mrs. Bunker.

"Is it right that you should make it
necessary for me to remind you of a
common duty; that of paying proper
attention to your health, in order that
we should have peace of mind?"

Indiana had been chosen to deliver
the valedictory at the closing exercises
at her school.  This gave her a reputation
for eloquence which she liked to sustain
whenever an occasion presented itself.

"I see your finish," she wound up,
not as elegantly as one might have
expected.  "You'll be a hopeless wreck
and we'll all have insomnia from lying
awake nights, worrying.  When we once
get in that state—" she turned to Mrs. Bunker.

"No cure," said the lady.  "Nothing
but time."

Stillwater sat with his hand in his
pocket and his eyes closed, apparently
thinking deeply.

"Well, I've said all I'm going to say."

She looked at him expectantly.  His
eyes remained closed, however, and he
breathed deeply and regularly.

"I have finished, pa.  Have you any
remarks to make?"

No answer.

"He's asleep, Indiana," said
Mrs. Bunker, with a peal of laughter.

"He is not," said Indiana indignantly.
"He's only making believe—"  She
bent down and looked in his face.
"You're not asleep, are you, pa?"

"No, of course not; who said I was?"  He
sat up rubbing his eyes.  "Did you
get it all off your mind, Indy?"

"You heard what I said, pa?"

"Certainly; it was fine.  You must
write it down for me some day, Indy."

"Would you close your ears and eyes
to the still, small voice," said Indiana,
jumping upon a chair and declaiming in
approved pulpit fashion.  "The voice
which says, 'Go not in the by-ways.
There are snares and quick-sands.
Follow in the open road, the path of truth
and righteousness.'  I want to know if
you're going to a doctor?"

"Well, I suppose I must, if I want
some peace in life."

"No ordinary doctor, you must
consult a specialist."  She looked around
triumphantly.

Her mother smiled on her in loving
approval.

"A specialist for what, Indy?" Stillwater
asked drily.

Indiana met his eyes bent enquiringly
upon her, then burst into laughter.

"Well, you've phazed me this time,"
she said.  Then she installed herself on
his knee.  "Oh, I don't mean a specialist
at all.  I mean a consulting physician—an
authority."

"Now you're talking," answered Stillwater,
with a beaming smile.

Indiana jumped off his knee.  "An
ordinary doctor isn't good enough for
my father!"  She gave a very good
imitation of a cowboy's swagger.  "I'm
hungry, pa."

"Well, where are you going to have lunch?"

"I'd like mine brought up," said
Mrs. Stillwater.  "Are the trunks
unlocked, Kitty?" as a young,
bright-looking girl appeared at the door.

"Yes ma'am.  Come right in and I'll
make you comfortable."

"I'll have my lunch up here with
ma," said Mr. Stillwater.  "What's the
rest of you going to do?"

"Oh, we'll go down and hear the
band play," said Mrs. Bunker with
exuberant spirits.  "Come along, Indiana!"

Stillwater was one of the men who had
risen rapidly in the West.  He had
married at a boyish age, a very young,
gentle girl, and had emigrated from the
East soon after marriage, with his wife
and her mother, Mrs. Chazy Bunker.
He built a house on government land in
Indiana.  The first seven years meant
hard and incessant toil, but in that time
he and the two women saw some very
happy days.  His marriage had been a
boy and girl affair, dating from the
village school.  One of those lucky unions,
built neither upon calculation or
judgment, which terminate happily for all
concerned.  Stillwater was only aware
that the eyes of Mary Bunker were blue
and sweet as the wild violets that he
picked and presented to her, and that
she never spelt above him.  His manliness
won her respect, and his gentleness
her love.  Their immature natures thus
thoughtlessly and happily united, like a
pair of birds at nesting time, grew
together as the years went on until they
became one.  After seven years of
unremitting work, Stillwater could stand
and look proudly as far as the eye could
reach, on acre after acre of golden
wheat tossing blithely in the breeze.
He had been helped to this result by
the women who had lived with the
greatest economy and thrift putting
everything into the land.  His young
and inexperienced wife acted under the
direction of her mother, a splendid
manager and a woman of great shrewdness
and sense.  He could look, also, on
the low, red-painted house, which could
boast now of many additions, and realize
that his marriage had been a success.
In that low red house Indiana first saw
the light, and, simultaneously, oil was
struck on the land.  The child became
the prospective heiress of millions.

The birth of a daughter opened the
source of the deepest joy Stillwater had
ever known.  When Mrs. Bunker laid
the infant swathed in new flannels in his
arms, he was assailed by indescribable
feelings, altogether new to him.  She
watched him curiously as he held the
tiny bundle with the greatest timidity
in his big brawny hands.  Feeling her
bright eyes on his face he flushed with
embarrassment.  Mrs. Bunker pushed
back the flannel and showed him a wee
fist, like a crumpled roseleaf, which she
opened by force, clasping it again around
Stillwater's finger.  As he felt that tiny
and helpless clasp tears welled into his
honest brown eyes.

"There isn't anything she shan't
have," he said.  And these words held
good through all the years that Indiana
lived under his roof.  In a spirit of
patriotism, Stillwater named his daughter
Indiana.

"She was born right here in Indiana,"
he declared.  "She's a prairie flower,
so we named her after the State."

The birth of a daughter appealed to
Stillwater as a most beautiful and
wonderful thing.  It awakened all the latent
chivalry and tenderness of his character.
As he remarked to his friend Masters,
"A girl kinder brings out the soft spots
in man's nature."

This feeling is a foreign one to the
European who always longs for a son
to perpetuate his name and possessions,
and after all it is a natural egotism when
there is a long and honorable line of
ancestry, but in all ranks and conditions
the cry is the same, "A son, oh Lord,
give me a son!"

After the boom which followed the
discovery of oil-gushers on the land, and
Stillwater looked steadily in the face,
with that level head which no amount
of success could turn, the enormous
prospects of the future, he thought,  "It's
just come in time for Indiana."  His
imagination pictured another Mary
Bunker, another soft and clinging
creature to nestle against his heart, another
image of his wife to wind her arms
about his neck and look up into his face
with trusting love.  Instead, he had a
little whirlwind of a creature, a
combination of tempests and sunshine, with
eyes like the skies of Indiana, and hair
the color of the ripe wheat, upon which
his wife used to gaze as she sat on her
porch sewing little garments, nothing
as far as the eyes could strain but that
harmony of golden color, joining the
blue of the sky at the rim of the horizon.
The peace and happiness of the Stillwater
household fluctuated according to
the moods of Indiana.  These conditions
commenced when she was a child, and
grew as she developed.  The family
regarded her storms as inevitable, and
nothing could be more beautiful than
her serenity when they passed, nothing
could equal the tenderness of her love
for them all.

Stillwater, under high pressure from
his family, went to consult a noted New
York medical authority; a gaunt,
spare-looking man, who, after the usual
preliminaries, leaned back in his chair and
regarded Stillwater fixedly.

"Your liver's torpid, your digestion
is all wrong, and you are on the verge
of a nervous collapse."

"Well, doctor, what do you advise?"

"Complete change."

"Well, don't send me too far.  I have
big interests on hand just now."

"Cessation of all business."

"Don't know how I can manage that."

"Get on a sailing vessel.  Stay on it
for three months."

"I should die for want of an interest in life."

"Take my advice in time, Mr. Stillwater.
It will save future trouble."

"I wonder how Indiana would like a
sailing trip," thought Stillwater.  "If
the folks were along I guess we'd
manage to whoop it up, all right.  Well, I'll
think it over, Doctor.  Of course, I
couldn't do anything without consulting the ladies."

Stillwater smiled in a confidential way,
as much as to say, "You know how it is
yourself."  The noted authority answered
by a look of contemptuous pity.

"See you again, Doctor."

As he arrived at the hotel he was
hailed by Indiana, driving up in a hansom.

"Been to see the doctor?"

"Yes; I've got lots to tell."

"Jump in and we'll drive around the
park.  The others won't be home yet."

Stillwater made a feint of hesitating.
"Perhaps I'd better wait till we're all
together."

"Well, you can jump in anyway, and
come for a drive," said Indiana.  "I'll
give him five minutes," she thought,
"before he tells me all he knows."

"The air will do me a whole lot of
good," remarked Stillwater, acting on
her advice.

It was a clear cold day, in the latter
part of February, and the wind blew
keenly in their faces as they bowled
leisurely up Fifth Avenue.

"Say, Indiana," after three minutes
perusal of the promenaders.

"Yes, pa—it's coming," she thought.

"How would you like to go on a
sailing trip for three months; the whole
kit and crew of us?  We'd have
everything our own way; I'd see to that.
We'd run the whole show.  On the
water for three months.  What do you
think of it—eh?"

"Bully!" shouted Indiana, throwing
her muff up in the air, and catching it
deftly.

"I thought you'd like it," said
Stillwater, chuckling.

"What did the doctor say, pa?" said
Indiana breathlessly.  "What did he
say was the matter with you?  Tell
me—you must tell me."

"Now, Indiana, give me a chance.
I'm going to tell you.  Didn't I start to
give away the whole snap?"

"But you're taking such a long time,
pa," she said, tapping the floor of the
hansom nervously.

"Well, when it comes down to it,
there isn't much the matter with me,"
answered Stillwater reassuringly.  "He
said something about a torpid liver."

"Torpid liver!" echoed Indiana,
looking as if she were just brought face
to face with the great calamity of her life.

"Now, that's what I was afraid of,"
said Stillwater.  "Please don't go on
like that before your ma, Indiana.  It's
not serious."

"No?" echoed Indiana helplessly.

"Why, it's nothing at all," Stillwater
laughed hilariously.  "Torpid livers—people
have them every day."

"Well, what else?" said Indiana.

"Oh, lots," answered Stillwater
confidentially.

"Tell me this minute; I must know.
Don't you try and keep anything from
me, pa."

"Indiana, will you give me a chance?
Sit down!  You'll be out of this hansom
in a minute.  Something about digestion.
*That* don't amount to *anything*."

Indiana sank back with a sigh of relief.

"And something about nerves—says
I must throw up business, that's all it
amounts to, for a few months."

"Then you'll be cured?"

"Positively."

"Then you shall, pop—you shall; do
you hear me?"

"Now, Indiana, what's the use of
your taking the reins and whipping up
like that?  I've told you what I reckon
to do.  Didn't I broach the subject of a
sailing trip?"

"Ma and I are good sailors,"
remarked Indiana meditatively, "but
Grandma Chazy don't like the water."

"Oh, we'll jolly her along her all
right," said Stillwater easily.  "Say,
Indiana," he put his mouth to her ear,
"Grandma Chazy wouldn't miss a
trick."

Indiana laughed loudly.

"Well, this is what I call a wild and
exciting time, Indiana.  If you took me
on many of these drives I think I'd get
rid of that 'slight nervous derangement'
the doctor was talking about.  Sort of a
rest-cure—eh?"

"Oh, if I could only get on that
horse's back!" cried Indiana, "I'd
make him go."

"Not that horse, Indiana," said
Stillwater chuckling.  "All the sporting
spirit in you wouldn't make *that* horse
go.  Suppose we think about getting
home?"

"Back to the hotel," he shouted to
the driver.

"I can't help thinking of Circus,"
said Indiana sentimentally.  "I wonder
if he misses me."

"You think more of that horse than
all your beaux, don't you, Indiana?"

Indiana nodded and smiled.

"I'll have my hands full for a few
weeks before I go on that sailing trip.
I don't know how I'm going to manage it."

"Well, you just *must*!"

"Suppose we don't say anything to
the others till I make sure I can go.  I've
got some big things on now, Indiana—"

"You won't go after you've worked
me all up about it—you'll keep on
grinding until you're past curing, until
one day you'll just drop down and die.
What do you care—and ma and Grandma
Chazy and—and I'll be left with no one
to look after us."  She buried her face
in her  muff, making piteous little gulps.

"I'm a fool," thought Stillwater, patting
her on the back.  "The idea of
that little thing takin' it so to heart.  I
didn't think she was old enough to
realize things like that.  None of us
know how much there is in Indiana."  His
heart swelled with gratitude at this
proof of devotion from his only child.

"Now, Indiana, don't lose your grip
like this.  I'm going, I tell you.  I'm
going on this trip.  There isn't anything
on earth that'll stop me.  Hi!  Driver!
Just run through and stop at Thorley's!"

As the hansom dashed up to Thorley's
Indiana gave a clear jump to the curb,
disdaining the hand her father held out.

"American beauties!" said Stillwater.

The salesman showed them a gorgeous
long-stemmed cluster.

"That's the ticket," said Stillwater.
"My, they're fresh, Indiana."  She
selected one and fastened it in her furs.
"I'll carry the rest for you.  Now what
would the others like?"

Indiana flitted about selecting flowers.

"Would you like them sent?" inquired the salesman.

"No," said Indiana, "we'll take them
right along."

"Why," exclaimed Stillwater as they
were leaving the store, "I was just about
forgetting you were all going to the
opera to-night.  Now, what flowers do
you want to wear, Indiana?"

"Well, my dress is white.  Hyacinths,
white hyacinths.  Corsage bouquet, Miss
Stillwater."

"And ma, she likes the sweet-smelling ones."

"Well, violets for ma.  Violets,
Mrs. Stillwater."

"Shall we say violets for Grandma Chazy?"

"I think Grandma Chazy would like
something brighter," said Indiana.

"Carnations?" suggested the salesman.

"Yes," said Indiana.  "Pink
carnations, Mrs. Chazy Bunker.  Send to
the Waldorf Hotel for this evening.
Don't make any mistake, please!"

"Duplicate the order to-morrow, same
time," added Stillwater.

Indiana hummed gaily to herself as
they drove off with their flowers.

"She's forgotten all about it now,"
thought Stillwater, with a satisfied glance
at her happy face.

Lord Canning noticed them when they
entered the hotel.

He was standing in the lobby through
which they passed, lighting a cigar
preparatory to going out.  He recognized
Stillwater immediately, and stared
curiously at Indiana.

"I suppose that is the daughter,"
he thought, "Indiana."  He smiled as
he puffed his cigar.





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.. _`Birds of Passage`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   Birds of Passage.

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"Anything, if it's for your
good," said Mrs. Stillwater,
when the subject of the sailing trip was
broached.  "Father, this is the finest
mignonette I've ever seen."

"Well, I suppose I'll be sick," added
Mrs. Bunker dolefully, as she helped
her daughter arrange the flowers, "but
I'll get used to the motion.  As long as
we get somewhere sometime, and see
something that's worth seeing.  Isn't
that vase a picture?"

"Well, you must leave that to me,
Grandma Chazy.  What's the matter
with Japan?"

There was a chorus of delight.  Indiana
jumped wildly up and down the room.

"I'll run in and see the old man
to-morrow morning.  He'll be glad to
hear I'm going to act on his advice.  I
told him I couldn't pledge myself to do
anything until I had first consulted the
ladies."

"Well, I guess," said Indiana.

"Let's have lunch; then I must get
right down town.  You won't see me
till dinner."

Their faces fell.

"What are we going to do with
ourselves?" said Indiana.

"Go shopping."

This seemed to be a happy idea, and
Stillwater congratulating himself that he
had suggested an entertainment which
appealed to them, kissed his wife,
remarking, "Now, don't you go and tire
yourself, mother.  You can't travel with
these other young things."

When Stillwater, the following
morning, confided to the noted medical
authority that he intended to take his
whole family on a sailing voyage to
Japan, adding the clause, "We're going
to have a real good time," he sank back
in his chair, and regarded Stillwater with
an expression of patient endurance.

"I thought I had impressed on you,
Mr. Stillwater, the necessity of absolute
rest and quiet.  *Rest* and *quiet*; do you
understand me?"

"Perfectly!  Perfectly!  That's what
I'm laying my plans for.  Three months
on a sailing vessel—"

"*With your entire family*, which includes—?"

"My wife, my daughter, and my
mother-in-law."

"A wife, a daughter, and a mother-in-law.
None of them deaf or dumb, I
presume?"

"Ha, ha, ha!  Now you needn't be
afraid I shan't have cheerful company.
They'll make things hum, I tell you!"

"I don't doubt it for a  minute.
Mr. Stillwater, I strongly advise this trip
without your family.  With your family
I am as strongly against it.  To be
confined for three months on a sailing vessel
with a wife, a daughter, and a mother-in-law,
would be enough to derange any
man's nerves, allowing he is perfectly
normal when he starts.  Now, the
consequences in your condition—"

"Now, doctor, you're not sure of
your ground.  You don't know my
family.  They're devoted to me."

"Of course," said the Noted Authority,
smiling blandly.  "That is the trouble."

"Say now.  They're not going to do me any harm."

"Intentionally, I hope not."

"Of course they have their little
squabbles, but I can manage them all right."

"We might effect a compromise.
How old is your daughter?"

"Eighteen.  A perfect child.  We can
do whatever we like with her."  Stillwater
smiled involuntarily as he uttered
this unblushing falsehood, thinking "I
mean she can do whatever she likes with
us.  My words got twisted, that's all."

"Well, suppose we leave your
mother-in-law behind, and take your wife and
daughter.  The latter, I gather, is
tractable and easily managed."

"Leave my mother-in-law behind!
Oh, I couldn't do that.  She's making a
great sacrifice for my sake.  She's awful
seasick but I promised her a good time,
once we get to Japan, and I mean to
keep my word."

The Noted Authority sighed.  "You're
quite decided on that point?"

"Quite.  Couldn't leave *her* behind.
Wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world."

"There is no more to be said, Mr. Stillwater."

"The sailing trip's off, then?"

"Except you resolve to go alone.  In
case of nervous derangement I always
advise separation.  No family."

"Of course, I couldn't presume to
argue with you, Doctor.  But I'll talk it
over with the ladies.  They'll never
allow me to go alone, though, I'm quite
sure of it."

"Is there any necessity to precipitate
matters so far?" said the Noted
Authority.  "Would it not be easier to
announce at once quietly and firmly
your intention to go, avoiding all
preliminary discussion?"

"Oh, you don't know my family;
they would not allow that sort of thing.
Doctor, are you married?"

"I have been a widower for some years."

"That explains—you've forgotten how
it is.  You see, my family are a very
touchy lot—but I know just how to
handle them.  We get along swimmingly."

"As these domestic conditions seem
inevitable, further discussions seem
useless.  *Talk it over with the ladies*.
Perhaps with the assistance of your wife,
your daughter and your mother-in-law
you may arrive at some decision which
will be agreeable to all concerned."

"Certainly!  Certainly!  I'll do as you
say—we'll talk it over and we'll hit on
something between the lot of us.  See
you again, Doctor.  Good-by."

"He's pretty far gone already, I fear,"
thought the Noted Authority after
Stillwater had departed.  "Absolutely afraid
to act on his own responsibility."

"What do you think?" cried Stillwater,
bursting in on his family about
dinner hour.  "He won't allow you to
go with me on that sailing trip.  He says
I must go alone."

"Well, pa, you go right back and tell
him that we wouldn't think of allowing
you to do anything of the kind."

"His office hours are over now, Indiana,"
said Stillwater, smiling placidly.
"Will to-morrow morning do?"

"Oh, father, it would just break my
heart to see you going off alone and
sick, too."

"Not to be thought of for a minute,"
said Mrs. Bunker.

"I told him you wouldn't hear of
it."  Stillwater leaned back in his chair,
watching with evident enjoyment the
effect of his words.  "He said that to
confine a perfectly normal person on a
sailing vessel for three months with his
wife, his daughter, and his mother-in-law,
would make him a nervous wreck for life."

"Did he say that, pa?"

"Practically, Indiana."

"Brute," said Mrs. Bunker.  "If he
once had the privilege of making my
acquaintance he might change his views
on the matter."

"He might fall all over himself to
become one of the sailing party
himself then," remarked Stillwater
chuckling.  "Well, he said I should talk it
over with the ladies."

"It's a wonder he gave us that much
consideration," said Indiana loftily.

"I reckon he thought he was humoring
me.  I guess he thinks I'm a gone
case."  Stillwater slapped his knee.
"Well, I've been doing some tall
thinking on my own account and it's come to
this."  He rose and looked at his wife.
"In the old days when I was coaxing
the ground, I never had these feelings, mother."

"Oh, no!"

"I'm going back to nature.  I'm
going to buy a farm.  I know just where
to lay my hands on one in Indiana.
Spring is coming.  I'm going to live on
it and work on it, till I'm a new man
again."

"I second that motion," said Mrs. Bunker,
bringing her hand down on the table.

"And I," cried Indiana.  "We'll all
go farming."

"Well, mother, you're not saying a word."

She smiled up at him.  Her eyes
were full of tears.

"It—it will be like the old days," she said.

"Here are the hats!" cried Indiana,
as Kitty, the maid, entered staggering
under the weight of a number of boxes.
They all became immediately interested
in the absorbing question of spring
headgear.

"How do you like this?" inquired
Mrs. Bunker, perching a black net
concoction on her carefully dressed head.

"Very becoming!" answered Indiana,
after a critical inspection.

"Suits you fine, grandma!" said
Stillwater.

"Shows what you all know!"
remarked Mrs. Bunker, looking in the
glass.  "It's entirely too old for me."  She
placed it on her daughter's smooth
brown coils.

"Ah!" cried Stillwater admiringly.
His wife, sitting under inspection,
looked inquiringly at Indiana.  A
mirror held no significance for Mrs. Stillwater.
She was always supremely satisfied
with whatever her family approved
of, for her, in the way of personal adornment.

"I'll take that hat for ma," said
Indiana.  "It's all right."

"Yes, Mary can afford to wear it,"
said Mrs. Bunker.  "I'm not young
enough for a hat like that."

"Ladies," exclaimed Mr. Stillwater,
looking at his watch.  "This is a pretty
interesting show, but excuse me for the
liberty of reminding you that there's
another, starting at a quarter past eight,
at which we've made a solemn resolution
to be present."

"Hear!  Hear!" cried Indiana.

"It is now seven o'clock.  Of course
you don't take as long to dress as I
do."  He made quickly for the door.

"Not a bit longer than other women,"
cried Indiana.

"Well, we'll leave that question
open," said Mr. Stillwater, disappearing.

That evening, as they were stepping
from the elevator in their wraps, ready
for the theatre, Mrs. Bunker uttered an
exclamation of intense surprise.

"Lord Canning!"

"Mrs. Bunker; I am delighted!"

"And Lord Stafford, too!"  She
shook hands with an elderly gentleman,
slightly foppish in appearance.  "Well,
of all people in the world, to meet you
here to-night.  I'm just ready to faint."

"Don't!  Don't!  Mrs. Bunker," said
Lord Stafford, with a laugh of intense
enjoyment.

"Lord Stafford; Lord Canning; my
son-in-law, Mr. Stillwater; my daughter,
Mrs. Stillwater, and my grand-daughter,
Miss Stillwater."

"Indiana," thought Lord Canning,
as he bowed ceremoniously.

"These gentlemen were my constant
companions at Cannes last year," said
Mrs. Bunker.  "We and the Jennings'
were together most of the time."

"I'm glad to know you, gentlemen!
My mother-in-law's often talked about
your kind attention to her abroad."

"Kind attention is no name for it,"
said Mrs. Bunker.  "They gave me the
best time I ever had.  And now that
I've caught them on American ground,
I intend to repay it with interest."

"I assure you, Mrs. Bunker, you
need feel no sense of obligation," said
Lord Canning.  "Your companionship
was a source of unfailing pleasure."

"What do you think of this big town,
Lord Canning?" said Mr. Stillwater,
indicating his surroundings by a
comprehensive wave of the hand.

"Extraordinary!" answered Lord Canning.

"How long are you going to be
here?" inquired Mrs. Bunker of Lord
Stafford, while her son-in-law was
probing Lord Canning's recently acquired
views of America.

"Oh, we're only birds of passage,
Mrs. Bunker."

"So are we; but isn't it delightful to
meet on the wing?"

"On the wing; ha, ha!  Delightful,
Mrs. Bunker!  Delightful!"

"We start to-morrow for California,"
said Lord Canning.

"And the day after we return to
Indiana," added Mrs. Bunker.

"In the summer we intend to
investigate Colorado."

"I have a ranch up in the Rockies,"
said Stillwater.  "Why, this little girl,"
he brought his hand down on Indiana's
shoulders, "learned to shoot up there."

"Indeed!" said Lord Canning.

"Well, you just ought to have seen
her once cornering a grizzly.  She shot
him, too—sure as I stand here."

"Extraordinary!" exclaimed Lord Canning.

"Oh, that's a small matter," remarked
Indiana modestly.

"Indeed!" said Lord Canning.

"We shoot bears every day in
America," she added airily.

At these words Lord Canning looked
about him as though he fully expected
one to appear that moment, for the
purpose of allowing him to see Miss
Stillwater dispatch it with all possible speed,
and just as she stood there in her long
white opera cloak, holding a bunch of
hyacinths.

"Not here!" exclaimed Indiana.

"No?" answered Lord Canning,
looking absently at her blonde
pompadour, every hair of which seemed to
quiver with a distinct life and
individuality of its own.

Indiana gave vent to a long peal of
merriment.

"No—of course not!" Lord Canning
hastened to add.  "Not *here*."

"We used to spend most part of our
summers in the Rockies," said Stillwater,
"but the last two or three years
the ladies have preferred the Adirondacks."

"We thought of giving ourselves a
month there in the autumn, before we
return to England," said Lord Canning.

"Now's my chance," exclaimed Mrs. Bunker;
"you must stay with us, and
we'll give you fine hunting."

"Plenty of deer in the North Woods,"
added Stillwater.  "You'll be heartily
welcome if you care to rough it with
us.  Camp life, you know."

"I should be only too delighted,"
said Lord Canning.  "What do you
say, Uncle?"

"Charmed!"

"I'm sure we'll make you feel at
home," said Mrs. Stillwater.

At these words, uttered with such
heartfelt sincerity, the two Englishmen
felt at home that very moment.  There
was a soft domesticity about Mrs. Stillwater,
which made itself perceptible
even in the brilliant crowded corridor
of the Waldorf.

"Now, Lord Stafford," said Mrs. Bunker,
"take out your note book; and
I'll give you all necessary instructions
to reach us."

"I generally manage to get up there
in September," said Mr. Stillwater.
"But, if anything detains me for a short
while—you'll be in good hands."

"Yes, we'll take care of you," said
Indiana.

Lord Canning smiled.  Indiana immediately
decided that his face, though
stern in repose, was not unattractive.

"Well, good-bye till the fall," said
Mrs. Bunker.  "Lord Stafford, do you
remember that odd trick you had abroad,
of turning up unexpectedly, wherever
I happened to be?"  She tapped him
playfully with a carnation from her
bouquet.

"Ha, ha, ha!  You see, I haven't lost
that trick yet, Mrs. Bunker!"  He took
the carnation and fastened it in his
buttonhole.

"Good-bye, Lord Canning," said
Indiana.  "Don't forget to look us up,
when you come to the woods.  I'll show
you the sights."

Lord Canning bowed, blushing with
embarrassment.  No young lady, of the
tender age of Indiana, had ever before
spoken to him with such freedom, or
looked at him with such unconscious,
unabashed eyes.

"Lively woman, Mrs. Bunker," remarked
Lord Stafford, looking after the
party, and inhaling the fragrance of the
carnation.

He met with no response.

"Lively woman, eh?" he repeated in
a louder tone.

"Yes," answered Lord Canning
absently, "very, very young; little more
than a child, in spite of her
self-assurance—and there's something about
her—something—quite—er—different!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`On a Model Farm`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium bold

   On a Model Farm

.. vspace:: 2

"The peas are sprouting pretty
lively.  The tomatoes are as
perky as the young generation.  The
strawberries—well, they're saying,
'To-day we're here, to-morrow we're
gone.'  You shall have strawberries and cream
for supper this evening."

After delivering this report in his
own neat style, Stillwater rolled down
his shirt sleeves, threw aside his big
straw wide awake, and sank into a
rocker.

"What are you making, mother?"

"A little dimity dress for Indiana to
wear about the farm."

"Well, history repeats itself on this
place.  Are you commencing to make
dresses for Indiana again?  I suppose
you're imagining she's a little fat tot,
and we've always been just here."

"Not when I look at all this goods,"
said Mrs. Stillwater laughing, "though
she's small, compared to what I was at
her age."

"Why don't you send to town for
some dresses," asked Stillwater.

"Oh, because it's a pleasure to make
it myself, father, and the child loves to
see me do it."

"Bye the bye."  Stillwater took a
handkerchief from his pocket, and
unfolding it, carefully disclosed what to
ignorant eyes was simply an ordinary
potato.  "I'll have something to show
at the next county fair, that'll make
neighbor Masters feel like very *small
potatoes*."

Mrs. Bunker, who was embroidering
red roses on white linen, handled the
potato with the air of a connoisseur.

"Father, you're working as hard on
this farm as if your living depended on
it," said Mrs. Stillwater.

"My living does depend on it; I'd
have been under the ground before
long, if I hadn't taken to this.  I
consider every potato which costs me ten
dollars, is equivalent to a doctor's pill."

Mrs. Bunker laughed.

"My dear grandmother, a man who
works as hard as I'm working on my
farm, makes a living and nothing more.
I sat in my office and doubled my
capital without turning a hand, but that's
the pace that kills.  Halloa, Glen," as a
young, good-looking fellow in knickerbockers
opened the gate.  "Leave your
wheel right there."

"Good morning, Mrs. Stillwater."

"Good morning, Glen; how's your mother?"

"Well, thanks.  Sends her love, and
father's quite his old self."

"Who cured him?" said Stillwater.

"He was getting to be a regular
hypochondriac.  We compared our symptoms;
they were about alike.  I constitute
myself my own doctor.  I buy a
farm, and a pretty thing it is, too.  I'll
be wabashed, if he don't go and do the same."

"Ah, but father happened to have his
farm, Mr. Stillwater," said the young
fellow, laughing.  "It's been neglected
for years.  It's not a model farm like
this, but we're getting it into shape."  He
looked around, as though he missed
something or someone.

"Say, Glen, what do you think of
this?"  Stillwater proudly exhibited his
potato.  Glen examined it with
professional interest.  "You couldn't do
any better than that, could you?"

"We don't try.  You know what
father says, 'Farmin' ain't no fad with
my neighbor, Stillwater.'—I'll just fetch
a drink from the well."

He went off with a long, swinging
stride, and, returning in a moment with
a tin cup in his hand, seated himself at
Mrs. Stillwater's feet, on the step of the
farm-house porch.

"Fine tasting water, eh?" said
Stillwater watching him.  "Cold as ice;
it's a fine thing to have a spring like
that, right on your ground."

Glen nodded, drinking slowly, and
fingering the dainty, pink and white,
flowered material on which Mrs. Stillwater
was working.  He finally rose,
restored the tin cup to the well,
sauntered back and into the kitchen, and
out again, with a disappointed expression.

"What's the matter, Glen?  Lost
anything?" inquired Mr. Stillwater,
winking at the others.

Glen smiled.  "Where's Indiana?"

"Oh, Indiana.  She went off on
Circus nearly three hours ago."

"Why didn't she stop for me?"

"I suppose she thought one's company,
two's a crowd," answered Stillwater.

"You never know when Circus is
going to cut up his games," remarked
Glen, gloomily.

"Tell me about Circus now," said
Mr. Stillwater scornfully, "don't I know
Circus by this time?"

"Do you think anything could have
happened?" asked Mrs. Stillwater in
alarm.

"I've yet to see the horse that Indiana
couldn't manage.  I never saw two
people understand each other better
than she and Circus.  He fretted and
fumed when she jumped on his back
this morning, then he did his great act.
Stood right up on his hind legs, and
looked around for applause.  But she
sat him like a rock.  The two of them
made the prettiest picture you ever saw.
Well, she got him so, that he trotted off
with her like Mary's little lamb.
Indiana has a way with a horse."

"I think I hear her now," said Glen,
walking down to the gate, and flinging
it open.

"Look at that boy!" said Stillwater.
"See, how his face lights up!"

"It's only natural," answered Mrs. Stillwater.
"They all feel like that towards Indiana."

"No," said Stillwater, watching Glen,
"not just like that."

"Yes," interpolated Mrs. Bunker,
"he's the same as the rest."

"No," persisted Mr. Stillwater.  "Not
quite the same.  Look at him out there!
He's a fine lad."

They glanced at him, standing
bare-headed, holding the gate and watching.
His small, finely shaped head, with its
well-modeled features, showing in relief
against the sycamore tree near the gate.

"He fought well for his country,"
continued Stillwater.

"There are others," said Mrs. Bunker
tersely.

"That's all right," responded Stillwater,
while the clatter of horses hoofs
came nearer.  "Not all of them went
like him—willing to give their heart's blood."

"Hurrah!" cried Indiana, entering
the gate at full gallop, riding straddle,
breathless, hatless, her yellow hair
streaming behind her.  Sitting aloft
Circus, who was a tall horse, she looked
like a little boy, a very young, tender,
pretty boy, whose hair his mother could
not yet bring herself to cut.  She circled
the mound in the centre of the garden,
and pulled Circus up tightly at the steps.
He reared at the suddenness of the
check.  Indiana sank forward on his
neck, spent with her ride, and circled
his head with her arms.

"No more tricks, Circus," she
murmured.  "The show's over; we're just
beat out, Circus."  Glen took her in
his arms, and lifted her bodily off the
horse.  A stable boy led him away.  His
shining black coat was covered with
flecks of foam.

"Give me a drink, someone!" said Indiana.

"Not now, Indiana," pleaded Mrs. Stillwater,
"you're so warm."

"I'm parched, I tell you," said
Indiana, stamping her foot, and pressing
her hand to her throat.

Glen ran quickly to the well, and
returned with the tin cup, which he held
to Indiana's lips.

"Slowly," he said, holding the cup.

"It's warm," she said, snatching the
cup, and spilling the remainder of the
water.

"Why didn't you stop for me?"
asked Glen.

"I wanted to ride alone," answered
Indiana, sinking down on the step.  "I
wanted to think—"

"Think," echoed Stillwater.

"Think," repeated Mrs. Bunker.
"Writing a book, Indiana?"

"Think!" said Glen.  "If Indiana's
taking these notions, I guess I'd better
say good bye."  He put on his cap.

"Don't mind them, darling," said
Mrs. Stillwater.  She drew Indiana's
head down on her shoulder, feeling her
hot cheeks and forehead solicitously.

"She's so warm—"

"What's the use of riding yourself out
like that, Indiana?" said Mrs. Bunker.

"Grandma Chazy," cried Indiana,
starting up.  "I'd rather have one mad
gallop like that if it were the death of
me, than take a slow gait for the rest of
my life."

"Indiana!" exclaimed Mrs. Stillwater.

"That's only the sporting spirit in
her, mother," said Stillwater.  "She
comes by it honestly."  He smiled as
he recalled a few venturesome dealings
of his own within the last year, which
had not culminated as he would have
wished.  Stillwater was one of the men
who could enjoy a laugh at his own
expense.

"There was a devil in me, this
morning," said Indiana, fiercely, "and I
just rode it down."

"Indiana!"

"That's only young blood, mother.
You can't expect her to be the same as
we old-timers."  He glanced slyly at
Mrs. Bunker, who poked him with her
needle.

"I was on the war path," said
Indiana.  "If I hadn't gone out with
Circus, I—I—well, you'd have just
scattered, that's all."

"Bet yer life," chuckled Stillwater.

"Is my dress finished?" asked
Indiana, burying her face in the pink and
white folds on Mrs. Stillwater's lap.

"Just a stitch or two more, dear.  I've
been working on it all morning."

"It looks so nice and cool.  I want
to put it on."

"So you shall, dear," said Mrs. Stillwater,
in the tone one uses to a fractious
baby.

"Just leave my hair alone, Glen,"
exclaimed Indiana, turning suddenly
around on him, with flashing eyes.

"All right, Indiana," he said, meekly.

"Come now, darling; come up stairs
and when you've had your bath, I'll
dress you up and brush your hair nicely.
It's all tangled."

"I didn't mean to be cross, Glen,"
said Indiana, with a sudden change of
mood, as Mrs. Stillwater took her hand
and led her through the kitchen.

"Oh, that's all right, Indiana!"

Glen Masters had known Indiana all
her life.  When she was born, the
six-year old Glen came to see the baby, and
stood by her cradle, sucking his thumb
in solemn-eyed wonder.  Not having
any brothers or sisters of his own, he
adopted her immediately; and he loved
to be tyrannized over by the petted baby
girl, who kicked and scratched him one
minute, and the next caressed him with
her little, soft, fat palms.  His father had
risen in the world very much the same
way as Stillwater.  They had been
ranchmen together.

Stillwater lit a meerschaum pipe and
puffed it slowly.  Glen followed his
example.

"There's two birds building a nest
up in that sycamore," said Stillwater.
"Hear them twitter?  They're just as
happy as can be."

Glen lounged on the step, looking
dreamily up at the sky.

"Well, how are things going on over
at the farm?" inquired Stillwater.

"Oh, we'll show some livestock at the
County Fair that can't be beat."  His
eyes smiled a challenge at Stillwater.

"No competition," chuckled Stillwater,
"but just you come over to the
barn.  I want to show you something.
'Farming ain't no fad with Friend
Masters,' but I'll meet him at Phillipi."

"When you men once get with the
livestock, that's the last we see of you.
Dinner's ready as soon as Indiana's
dressed," said Mrs. Bunker, as they
sauntered off laughing.

It was the custom of the family to
partake of dinner farm style, in the large
kitchen.  The first bell, which Kitty
rang daily, was for the family, the second
summoned the farm hands.

Glen and Stillwater, by chance, not
by any intention of punctuality, emerged
from the farm, just as the first bell
resounded from the house.  It was then
that Glen thought fit to stop and utter
a very vital question.

"Mr. Stillwater, I want to ask you
what you think of my chances with—with Indiana?"

Glen was oblivious to the fact that he
had not chosen a very propitious time or
spot, to broach such a subject.  The
dinner bell had just sounded and Mr. Stillwater
had been working since five
o'clock that morning, to gain an
appetite.  Then, the mid-day sun poured
down on them where they stood, and
an Indiana sun is hot in May.

"Your chances with Indiana?"  The
repetition was merely a subterfuge to
gain time, as Indiana's father had not the
remotest idea how to answer her young
suitor.  Glen's preference had been an
open secret for a long time; but he had
never openly broached the subject, not
even to Indiana.

"Yes!"

"Oh—oh, I think they're all right, my
boy—why shouldn't they be?"  Stillwater
looked about him as though challenging
earth and heaven to contradict.

"That's exactly what I think," said
Glen, grasping the other's hand.  "Why
shouldn't they be?"

Stillwater's heart sank as he looked
into the young fellow's glowing, hopeful
eyes.  He strongly suspected that Indiana
would not accept her old playmate in
the character of a lover.  But he could
not bring himself to tell Glen this.  He
felt deeply for the son of his oldest friend.

"I've known her all her life,
Mr. Stillwater," said Glen, as though this
was a fact unknown to Stillwater.

"Is that so, my boy?" said Stillwater,
accepting the information seriously.

"And it is my conviction that I
understand her better than anyone living;
better even than yourself!"

"You do?" said Stillwater.  "Well,
that's wonderful!"

"It is, and that's why I don't see how
Indiana could marry anyone else."

"Anyone else but you?" repeated
Stillwater with deference.

"Precisely; anyone else but me.  Can't
you see it yourself?  A stranger wouldn't
understand her.  He wouldn't have the
remotest idea how to treat her.  I know
all her faults."

"Are you positive about that?"

"Positive."

"Well, it's a great thing to know the
worst beforehand."

"Then I can rely on your co-operation
in this matter, Mr. Stillwater?"

"You can," said Mr. Stillwater.  "I'd
like to see it.  I've known you from a
little lad and you're the son of my oldest
friend.  I'm with you—you can figure
what that's worth."  He himself knew
how little his wishes would weigh with
his opiniative little daughter, in such a
case.  Glen also realized that fact only too
well.  What they *said* was merely a
matter of form.  They both felt there was a
certain etiquette attendant on the subject.
"Thank you, Mr. Stillwater.  I'm
glad to think you consider me a proper
husband for Indiana."

"Don't mention it, my boy! and now,
I want to give you a little advice.  Don't
spring anything on Indiana!"

Glen looked at him inquiringly.

"Don't be too sudden—"

"Indiana has already received several
offers, but I don't believe anyone of
them was a shock to her," answered
Glen dryly.  He thought also, "How
can a fellow be sudden with a girl he's
known ever since she had short, yellow
rings curling all over her head, and
wasn't sure on her feet."

"She expected those offers, but she
never dreams of such a thing from you."

"No, I don't suppose she does," said
Glen, gloomily.

"Of course, we can't tell anything
about *her*.  One never knows what sort
of a notion Indiana's going to take.  I
don't want to discourage you—but don't
stake your whole life on this thing, my
boy.  It won't do—it never does."

Glen drew a deep breath, and turned
his head away.

"Put your cap on!  The sun's hotter
than July."

"Oh, Manila has schooled me to
this—and worse, if it comes."  He
compressed his lips, and gazed ahead, past
the farm, to the utmost line of horizon,
and beyond that.

"You're a true soldier, my boy.  Face
the music—we've all got to, sooner or
later."

The dinner bell rang again with
menace in its brassy tones.

"We'd better go back to the house.
They'll give us Hail Columbia!  Brace
up, Glen, and remember—I'm with you!"

Over on the farm-house porch Mrs. Bunker
was saying to Kitty: "It's the
last of those men, once they get with the
live-stock."

"Here they are," said Kitty.  "Why,
Mr. Stillwater!  Dinner's ready long ago."

"Don't get excited, Kitty; keep cool.
This is the hot part of the day.  Do you
observe that the sun has approached its
meridian, Kitty?  No occasion for rush
here.  Rest and quiet, Kitty—that's my
cure.  Say, look at Indiana!  Isn't she
the sweetest thing that ever happened?"

She peeped from behind her mother,
dressed in the simple pink and white
dimity.  Her hair had been smoothly
brushed, and hung in one long braid.
She looked like a fair and happy child,
of not more than fifteen; laughing,
refreshed from sleep.  Glen gazed at her,
but said nothing.  His recent confession
to Indiana's father, had the effect of
making him conscious and tongue-tied.
There was a large orchard on the farm,
where lay the afternoon shade.  The
family repaired there, according to the
daily custom, as soon as dinner was over.
Hammocks hung in the trees and Kitty
spread shawls on the ground, and
brought pillows galore.

Glen sat in the midst of the group,
tuning his mandolin, which he kept at
the farm.  Glen and his mandolin were
associated.  All invitations issued to him
included the clause, "Bring your
mandolin!"  He seldom made a social visit
without it, except on doleful occasions,
such as funerals or visits of condolence.

He was hailed with joy whenever he
appeared with his frank smile and his
mandolin.  In the West, there is a keen
appreciation of impromptu pleasure.

In the orchard the fruit trees had fully
blossomed, the grass was still a young,
tender green.  Through the masses of
delicate pink and white color, shone here
and there, glimpses of the exquisite blue
sky.  There is little to admire, as far as
scenery is concerned, in this flat country,
over which one can travel for miles
without seeing a rolling meadow, or a
sign of a hill.  But one can rave over the
skies of Indiana, sometimes brilliantly,
sometimes softly tenderly blue.  Their
peculiar azure is not reproduced in any
other country of the world.  The color
ran out when the skies of Indiana were
painted, and never renewed, in order
that they should remain unique.  The
secret belongs to the Universe.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Springtime`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   Springtime.

.. vspace:: 2

"The blossoms are commencing
to fall," said Mrs. Stillwater,
shaking three or four petals off her
work.  Her hands were never idle, and
they were now manipulating some fleecy
white wool.  "What a pity it can't
always be like this—the trees look so
beautiful.  I could content myself here
all summer—"

"Well, I won't say that," said
Mrs. Bunker.  "There's no place hotter on
earth, than Indiana in summer.  But if
it would always be as pleasant as now—I
like the seashore in July—"

"You mean," interrupted Stillwater,
lying under a low-spreading apple tree,
with a handkerchief spread over his face,
"that you like the 'life' at the seashore.
There's no affinity between you and the
ocean that I know of."

"Well, have it that way, if you will.
I like 'the life at the seashore.'"

Mrs. Bunker looked defiantly up from
the red rose which she was embroidering,
with a little less energy perhaps, than in
the morning.  "Particularly, as we are
buried alive in the Adirondacks during
August, September and October."

"Buried alive?"

"Buried alive!"  Mrs. Bunker looked
around triumphantly, enjoying the
sensation her words had occasioned.
Indiana had thrown down her book which
she was reading, lying on her back.  Glen
stopped thrumming pensive snatches
of melody.  Mrs. Stillwater gave her
mother a startled glance and Stillwater
threw the handkerchief from his face
and raised himself to a sitting posture.

"Well, I never saw such a woman!
Buried alive!  Buried—why, you have
the camp filled with company.  Didn't
I have to put up tents for them last year;
the place looked as if there was an army
bivouacing on it—"

"Oh, yes; I can make a good time
for myself wherever I am—but when
we're alone there—it's so still, I'm afraid
of the sound of my own voice, and
jump for joy if I see a chipmunk
peeping out of its hole.  There's something
spry about them, at all attempts.  The
natives would do well to imitate them.
Such a slow lot—and those guides with
their drawling voices.  The world just
stops, when you get up to the Adirondacks."

"I'm never so happy," remarked
Glen, "as when I'm in the forests and
on those lakes.  It's the real thing.
City life goes against my grain, somehow."

"I always feel quite natural in the
woods," said Indiana.  "Just as though
I belonged there, with the other wild
things."

"When did those English friends of
yours say they were coming up,
grandma?" inquired Mr. Stillwater, in a
muffled voice, having again taken shelter
under the handkerchief, after recovering
from the last of the many shocks he
was in the habit of receiving from his
mother-in-law.

"They said September, but I have a
shrewd idea they'll get tired of travelling
before then.  They may arrive the latter
part of August.  They'll be glad to see
a little home life once more."

"Friends of yours, Mrs. Bunker?"
inquired Glen, with a slight frown.

"Yes; Lord Canning and his uncle,
Lord Nelson Stafford.  They belong to
a representative noble English family.
I met them at Cannes last year—"

"Lord Canning is a very distinguished
looking gentleman," said Mrs. Stillwater.

"His face inspires trust, if I'm not
mistaken," remarked her husband.

"I promised to show him the sights,"
said Indiana, with a mischievous smile.

"How kind and disinterested of
you," remarked Glen, in a very
sarcastic voice.

"What do you mean by that?"
demanded Indiana.

"I mean you intended to make an
impression on him, by the time you
were through with the sights," answered
Glen, with a pale face.

"And supposing I did," said Indiana,
provokingly.  "It wouldn't be the first
time I have made an impression, nor
will it be the last."

"Oh, well, I suppose you must have
someone to flirt with," said Glen, resignedly.

"Now, children, don't quarrel!  You
know what that New York oracle said:
'Rest and quiet.'"

"I never flirted with you," said Indiana.

"I should hope not," answered Glen,
in a very dignified manner.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I intend to be taken
seriously, or not at all."

They all gasped at this temerity from
such an unexpected quarter.  Stillwater
peeped at Indiana from under the corner
of his handkerchief.

"No man has ever yet dictated to
me," said Indiana, majestically.

"It's more than I'd do," murmured
Stillwater.

"Men are generally only too glad if
I will tolerate them on any terms,"
continued Indiana.

"Well, I'm not like others; but never
mind, Indiana—that's true enough—I
ought to be glad to be tolerated on any
terms."  He smiled resignedly around
on the circle.  He was afraid he had
gone too far.  At all events, their little
skirmishes generally ended this way.
Indiana felt a slight misgiving as she took
up her book again.  Glen, her slave and
comrade, was one person, but Glen, who
wished to be taken seriously, with a pale
set face and glowing eyes, was another.

"What are you making, ma?" inquired Stillwater.

"A little woolen cape, with a darling
hood attached, for Indiana.  Just to put
on her when she's roaming after dinner
in the mountains.  It's so chilly there,
when the sun goes down."

"You're always making something
for her," said Stillwater.

"She's the best mother I ever had,"
remarked Indiana, proudly fingering
her little dimity skirt.

Mrs. Stillwater blushed with happiness,
and looked with almost tearful love on
this child, who showed such unparalleled
appreciation of her mother's efforts.

"Sing 'My Georgia Lady Love,'
Glen!" said Mrs. Bunker.

Glen struck a few notes on his mandolin
and sang in a very pleasing baritone.

   |  "My Georgia Lady Love, my Southern Queen,
   |  How your brown eyes do shine like stars above,
   |  There's not a girl can equal you,
   |  My Georgia Lady Love—Love."
   |

"Kitty, you were never so welcome
in your life," said Stillwater, as Kitty
appeared with the tea-tray.  She was
followed by a farm-hand carrying a table
and a camp-stool.  Mrs. Bunker seated
herself, and commenced pouring out
the tea.

"Go ahead with the second verse, Glen!"

   |  "One day I said, 'I love you, Sue,
   |  Believe me, gal, I will be true.'
   |  She slowly dropped her head,
   |  And then she softly said:
   |  'Mister Johnson, 'deed I loves you too.
   |  My Georgia Lady Love, my Southern Queen."
   |

"There's a circus to-night," volunteered Kitty.

"Circus!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunker.

"Oh, I want to go," said Indiana.

"Let's stuff the big hay wagon full of
straw and pillows," cried Mrs. Bunker.
"It's full moon; we'll have a grand
ride, eh, Ratio?"

Ratio looked visibly delighted.

"Well, you know what he said, 'Rest
and quiet.'"

"Pa, you're forever quoting that old
mummy," said Indiana.  "He's like
the ghost in Hamlet.  It's settled; we'll go."

"Well, what's the matter, Kitty?
Got anything on your mind?"

"No, sir; but Jim Tuttle's invited
me to the circus, and I'd like to go, if
the ladies don't object."

"Not at all, not at all," said Stillwater,
with an amiable wave of his hand.  Kitty
left the orchard in high glee.

"She did well to ask you, instead of
me, sly thing," said Mrs. Bunker.
"That girl's too fond of pleasure."

"Now grandma—we were young ourselves, once."

"Speak for yourself, Ratio.  I'm
going to the kitchen to make some
taffy.  There's just enough time for it
to cool.  We'll take it along and give
it to all the youngsters."

"Well, ma, there's a nice breeze
blowing, the sun's going down.  What
do you say to a short spin?"

"Yes, father."

"Well, get ready.  I'll have the
buckboard here in five minutes."  He rose,
shaking off the blossoms which
powdered his coat like snow.

"There's some on your hair, ma;
they're so pretty."

Indiana rose lazily from the grass,
also shaking off a shower of blossoms,
and leaned against a low-spreading
apple tree, extending her arms on the
branches each side of her.

Glen gazed at her, still thrumming
his mandolin.

"Do you think you'll come to
Narragansett with us, this summer?" said
Indiana, looking idly up through the
branches.

"What for?" said Glen, gloomily.
"To see you dance and flirt with a lot
of—of simpering idiots."

Indiana laughed.  Every time she
moved, the blossoms fell upon her
shoulders, neck and hair.

"Don't you like me to enjoy myself?"

"Not with other men."

"Oh, that's selfish!"

"Maybe," said Glen.

There was silence, broken only by the
thrumming of the mandolin and the twitter
of birds from the recesses of the trees.

"It's sad, the way those blossoms fall
on you, Indiana."

Indiana shook the branches, and
peeped out laughing through the thick
shower which followed.

"You look like a part of the tree,"
said Glen.  "Like a wood-sprite, a
Dryad—or something."

"Or something," said Indiana, "is
very illustrative to the mind."

"I like you best as you are here about
the farm," continued Glen, watching
her steadily with his dark eyes, and
continuing his eternal thrumming.  "Just
as you are now, in that simple dress
your mother made for you, with your
hair hanging like that—I always liked
your hair hanging—do you remember,
Indiana?"

"Yes, you always liked it, Glen."

"It went rather hard with me, when
you first put it up, and wore long
dresses.  It seemed as though that were
going to be the end of all our good
times."

"But it wasn't, Glen?"

"No; you were the same old Indiana,
although you looked more—the woman.
Then you discovered your own power,
and you took to breaking hearts.  You
were very apt at that business, for one so young."

"You forget," said Indiana, with a
sly smile, "there was Grandma Chazy."

"That's true.  An old soldier in camp
put you on to all the principal maneuvers."

They both laughed, looking around
cautiously, like naughty children, as
though Mrs. Bunker might be hiding
somewhere among the trees.

"I fought shy of you for awhile,
then—I was young and unworldly."  From
Glen's seriously reminiscent expression,
he might have been looking back upon
another self of twenty or thirty years
ago.  "And I could not justify your
practices at that time.  I don't know
whether you noticed the difference in me?"

"Only that you made yourself scarce
when there was anyone else around."

"I accepted the inevitable after a
while; but when I see you in the midst
of a crowd of men, dealing out dances
and smiles, you appear to me like some
stranger, with a marvellous resemblance
to a girl I once played with, called
Indiana.  Here, in the country, and up in
the Adirondacks you are the real Indiana."

"That's nonsense!  We can't be girl
and boy forever.  There's something
else in life—I suppose."

"What?" said Glen.

"I don't know," answered Indiana
impatiently, "but it's individual.  People
must discover it for themselves—"

"Have you?" asked Glen.

"No," answered Indiana.

"I have," said Glen.

"Tell me."

"Not now."

"This sort of life is all very well, but
in order to develop, one must see the
world, must be of the world.  I don't
believe in a groove."

"Your mother did," said Glen.

"How can you compare me to ma?
She's the old-fashioned type, bless her
heart!"

"Look at this day," said Glen
irrelevantly.  "I believe in enjoying what
we have.  This is one day out of life.
There'll never be another like this—not
just like this.  The blossoms are going—"

"They'll come again, next year,"
said Indiana.

"Yes, but we may be different, that's
the trouble.  I'd like to keep this
day—everything is so young and tender and
spring-like—and you're part of it all.
The sun sinking over there; the rosy
clouds above our heads—there's a soft,
pink light on the whole orchard—it's
shining down, through the branches,
on your face.  I wish there was an
artist—the best in the world—living
hereabouts.  I'd jump on my wheel,
and bring him in a trice, with his
color-box and his canvas.  But it would be
even too late—to catch this light.  I'd
have him paint the whole thing with
you in the foreground, among the
blossoms—that glow on your face.  I'd call
the picture, 'Indiana.'"

.. vspace:: 2

.. _`"I'd call the picture, 'Indiana.'"`:

.. class:: center medium bold white-space-pre-line

   [Illustration: "I'd call the picture, 'Indiana.'" 
   (missing from book)]

.. vspace:: 2

"And you, Glen?  You wouldn't be
in it at all."

"I'd own the picture," said Glen.

A slight breeze swept through the
orchard, bringing a snowy shower from
the trees.  There was a tinkling of bells,
not far away.

"The cows have just come home,"
said Indiana.  "Glen, what will you do
with yourself this summer, if you don't
go with us to Narragansett?"

"I'll stay with the folks, till you all
go up to the camp.  Then I'll join you
on our old hunting grounds—if you
want me—"

"Why!" exclaimed Indiana.  "It
wouldn't seem like the Adirondacks, if
you weren't there."

Glen smiled gratefully.

"How are the folks?"

"Well, thanks.  They were talking
about you, to-day."

"I'll ride over there to-morrow."

"They'll be glad to see you.  They
love you just—just like a daughter."

"I like people to love me," said
Indiana.

"So do I," answered Glen.  He gazed
around him.  Nature so beautifully
revealed just then, inspired him to speak.
"There are not many days like this,"
he thought, "and now, it is measured
by moments.  Before it is over I will
tell her!"  He leaned over his mandolin,
watching a little brown bug struggle
through the grass, then he gazed
upward.  The rosy light still lingered on
the orchard.

"Before it fades, I will ask her."  Stillwater's
caution recurred to him.
"'Don't spring anything on Indiana!'  He
didn't make allowances for a moment
like this," thought Glen.  "He
didn't think it was going to be such a
day."  He was very pale, and his fingers
shook slightly as they laid the mandolin
down on the grass.

"Do you think you could love me,
Indiana?" he said, simply.

"Why, I've loved you all my life, Glen."

"I don't mean that way, Indiana."  He
took up his mandolin again, nervously.

"I don't know any other way, Glen,"
she answered, pitifully.

"Not now; but don't you think you could?"

"No, Glen."

"Try me; let's be engaged for a little
while, then if you can't love me—"

"Glen, it's no use—I've known you
too long."

"Indiana, you don't know what you're
saying—you're killing me, Indiana!"

"Glen!  Glen!"  She threw herself
down beside him, and smoothed and
patted his hair, soothing him as though
he had fallen and hurt himself.  He
seized her hands, and held them tightly.

"Life means nothing to me, without
you, Indiana—you're the key to it.
Look here; suppose I was given a
beautiful book to read, in a foreign
language—the greatest ever written—it
would be mere print, wouldn't it?  But
suppose someone translated it for me,
and all its beauty became suddenly
revealed.  You translate life for me that
way, Indiana; *don't you understand*?"

"Yes, yes, Glen.  But if I marry you,
that will be the end.  You're too much
a part of the old life—"

"The old life, Indiana?  Isn't that
the best life?"

"Not for me."

"You don't know what you're saying.
If I live to be a hundred, I want to live
true to the old life, to the old ideals and
the old truths, even the simple ones I
learned at home, when I was a little lad."

"You're a good fellow, Glen; shake
hands with me!"

"Won't you think about it, Indiana?"

"No, dear!  I hate to say it—but I
want to be straight with you.  Something
tells me it's not the right thing for
us to marry.  Don't say any more—don't
try to persuade me—it's no use."

"All right, Indiana."

"Don't look like that, Glen! you'll
break my heart.  Life isn't over for you,
because—of this.  It's a beautiful world
still—look at the blossoms, look at the
day!"

"It's not the same," said Glen, holding
his hand to his eyes.  "It'll never
be the same."

"Oh, yes, it will, dear; after a while.
I don't want to lose you, Glen; you'll
be my dear old friend still.  Say you
will!"

"Do you remember when I went to
the war, Indiana?  You gave me a lock
of your hair, and I carried it over my
heart.  It was a charm, a little yellow
lock—it brought me back to you alive.
You cried when you gave it to me, and
said, 'God keep you, Glen!'"

"And I say it now!  Wherever we
both happen to be, until I die, 'God
keep you, Glen!'"  She broke down,
and sobbed on his breast.

He smoothed her hair mechanically,
murmuring, "A little yellow lock—I
carried it over my heart, always.  They
might have found it if I hadn't come
back.  I wish that I hadn't, now—I
wish that I hadn't!"

"Glen!  What are you saying?"  She
held her hand over his mouth.  "We'll
go on just the same; you mustn't say
anything to the others.  We'll keep our
own secret, and you'll come to the camp
this August?"

"It'll never be the same," repeated
Glen, monotonously.

Suddenly they heard the sound of
wheels, and Stillwater's voice shouting
to Jim Tuttle.

"I must be getting home," said Glen
stupidly, like a person just awakened
from sleep.

"Why, aren't you going to the circus,
Glen?"

"Circus?"

"Don't break up the party!"

"All right, Indiana."

It was not a merry circus party, as far
as the younger members were concerned,
but the others were lively, and
failed to see anything strange in their
behaviour.  Indiana asked someone to
dare her to jump down in the ring, and
ride better than the lady equestrian, but
they all wisely refrained from doing so.
Glen sat in the center of the wagon and
tinkled his mandolin faithfully, for the
amusement of the party.  They dropped
him at his own gate, to which they
drove, singing hilariously, Kitty
bringing up the rear in a buggy with Jim
Tuttle.

"Hello, neighbor Stillwater!" called
a voice from one of the farm-house
windows.

"It's father," said Glen.

"Hello, Masters!"

"Is this what you call 'rest and quiet?'"

"Well, I don't believe in too much
of a good thing; good-night."

"Good-night; good luck to you all."

"Merrily we roll along," sang Mrs. Bunker.

Glen leaned against the gate after
they had gone, listening to their voices
in the distance.

"Have a good time, Glen?"

"Yes, father!"

The window closed.  Glen laughed
bitterly, leaning against the gate; then
the laugh changed to a sob.

"I don't want much, I ask so little,
dear God; *only Indiana*."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Camp Indiana`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   Camp Indiana.

.. vspace:: 2

"I'm tired of the model farm.  I
wouldn't care to spend another
spring here."

"Indiana, your love of change will
bode you no good, some day."

"I come by it honestly, Grandma
Chazy—you're always on the go."

"Don't compare yourself to me,
Indiana.  I'm an old woman."

"You'd be hopping mad, if anyone
else called you that."

"I can take a privilege which I
wouldn't allow to others," said
Mrs. Bunker, sweetly.  "I mean I'm an old
woman compared to you, Indiana; I
have experience and discretion, to back
up my roving spirit."

"Em—n!" said Indiana.

She was lying on a nest of pillows,
reading, surrounded by dormer
windows, in one of the upper rooms of the
farm-house.

"Look at pa out there in the rain
with his rubber coat and hat.  He's a
sight!  Wonder if Glen will be over
to-day."

"Appears to me, you're always looking
for Glen."

"There's no one else to look for,
here, is there?"

"Girls your age generally do attach
themselves to the man who's around."

"I'm no more attached to Glen than
I ever was.  Everybody likes him.  He's
a good fellow."

"That's true.  Do you think you'll
marry him?"

"What's your opinion on that matter,
Grandma Chazy?"

"I think you'd regret it all your life;
he's only a boy."

"Yes, but he's a good fellow."

"You said that before."

Glen had kept away for a week or so
after the moonlight circus party, and in
that time became morbid and
melancholy.  Indiana dominated him
completely.  He racked his brain, hour after
hour, trying to remember the exact words
in which she had uttered such and such
a remark, with her exact tone of voice
and the exact expression of her eyes at
the time.  Sometimes in his sleep he
heard her calling "Glen dear!  Glen
dear!  Glen dear!" her childish name
for him, in a helpless, frightened voice.
He would awaken with a terrible fear
that she might be ill or in trouble.
Compared with this awful anxiety
oppressing him in the night, his past misery
seemed nothing.  He resolved that if
Indiana only kept well and happy he
would ask nothing more of life.  Again,
he heard her laughing in his dreams,
mockingly, tantalizingly; laughing,
laughing, laughing, until his brain
reeled, and he thought, "This is the
laugh that drives men mad."  Then,
when taking bicycle rides on the
moonlight nights of his week's absence, her
face seemed to flash upon him suddenly
in dark places, like that of a sweet ghost.
Haunted like this, the idea of seeing her
in reality once more was like the
conventional promise of Heaven.  He resolved
to resume their old footing.  "Indiana
wishes it, and anything is better than not
to see her."  He appeared again at the
model farm, humble and deferential to
Indiana's slightest wish, grateful for her
every look and word.  With her tender
heart and warm sympathies she pitied
him intensely.  She tried to establish
their old comradeship.  The loyal little
soul hated to lose a friend.

Glen felt life was worth living once
more.  There is a magic flower, tiny,
and blue as the sky.  This is the
forget-me-not bloom of hope.  It sheds
a sweet and subtle fragrance which
enchants the soul, and charms the eyes, so
that they see a wonderful light on all
things.  But when the flower perishes,
there is an end to the spell.  The glamour
fades before the eyes, the soul is seized
with an aching grief.  But the witch-flower
of hope will bloom again, if it is
not plucked by the root.

"I'm getting a little bit tired of it
myself, here," remarked Mrs. Bunker.
"Well, it'll be time to pack up soon; I
expect to enjoy myself this summer."

Indiana, watching the rain, forebore
to answer.  There were times when
Mrs. Bunker's constant desire for pleasure
rather palled on her.

Mid-summer at a fashionable seaside
resort proved to be merely a repetition
of other summers.  Indiana enjoyed
herself, after the manner of the young and
thoughtless; dancing, bathing, flirting,
and laughing.  But after the glare of
the sea and the kaleidoscope of life on
the shore, after falling asleep every night
to the echoes of the very latest dance
music, mingled with the eternal dash of
the waves, the woods beckoned her invitingly.

It was the middle of August before the
Stillwater's were installed in the
mountains.  They arrived at the primitive
station early in the morning, and were
met by one of the two guides yearly
engaged for the season.  There was a
large mountain wagon, without a cover,
awaiting them, and a pair of
fresh-looking ponies.  Indiana jumped up
nimbly, and took the reins, while Haller,
the guide, packed in the rest of the
family and Kitty, all looking rather
sleepy, from their all-night travel.  The
other servants had preceded them by
some days.

"All right!" shouted Indiana, starting
at a brisk trot.  It was only twenty
minutes' drive from the station to a
landing, where they were met by a
trim little naptha launch with "The
Indiana" painted newly, in bright
letters, upon the prow.  She puffed slowly
up one of the largest lakes in the
Adirondacks, buried in the very heart of the
mountains.  The latter are higher in this
particular region, the scenery wilder
than elsewhere.  Nature had designed
a beautiful color scheme from the lake;
the rich, vivid green of the banks,
fretted with enormous rocks and crags,
the darker background of the immediate
mountains, in their funereal dress of
pine and balsam, and beyond the pale
tracery of the distant ranges.  It was a
dull morning, and the grey atmosphere
gave a touch of desolation to the wild
environment of the lake.

"It's lonesome as the grave," said
Mrs. Bunker.  "Throw me that cape,
please, Mr. Haller.  I'm chilly."

"Yer be?" said Haller, with a certain
contortion of his serious face, which
was intended for a smile.  "Waal, 'tis
cool, mornin's."

"How are the evenings?  Cold, I suppose?"

Haller cogitated for the space of five
minutes.  No one answers a question
thoughtlessly in these regions; and after
sojourning there some time, one learns
not to interrogate at random.  "Waal,"
he said at length, "'tis cool evenin's."

"None of the leaves have changed
yet," said Indiana, after closely
inspecting the banks on either side.

"No; they ain't changin'.  Waal,
thar's bin no frost, ter speak of—thar's
bin no frost, ter speak of."

"Is it going to storm?" inquired
Mrs. Stillwater, shivering, with a heavy plaid
shawl wrapped about her.

Haller looked at the sky.  "Waal,
not yet awhile."

"Indiana, your hat!" cried Mrs. Bunker.
A gust of wind had torn it off
her head.  Haller deftly rescued it from
the lake and restored it to Indiana in a
dripping condition.  She sat
bare-headed, enjoying the outlook, the moist
wind blowing her hair in large rings
around her face.

"We're in for it," said Mrs. Bunker.
When they started, the lake had been
grey and calm.  Now, it was gradually
darkening, and dotted here and there
with white-caps.

"Are yer skeert?" said Haller, looking
at Mrs. Bunker with one of his contortions.

"No," retorted Mrs. Bunker, sharply,
"but I want to get to the camp."

"Waal, we're goin' there," said
Haller, calmly.

In a little while they came in sight of
the boat-house, elaborately rustic, and
pretty in design.  Near it was planted
an enormous flag-staff, from which
waved a white flag bearing the name
"Camp Indiana" in red letters.

Camp Indiana, christened after the
only daughter of the owner, was the
usual log structure, but capacious in
dimensions, with a luxurious interior.
There were many adjuncts in the way
of out-buildings and summer-houses,
glimpses of which could be caught
between the trees.  The camp owed much
to art, but rejoiced in one supreme,
natural beauty.  This was a giant balsam
tree which Stillwater could not bring
himself to cut, and, therefore, had been
used in the construction of the camp
itself.  The huge trunk supported the
balcony, and the lower branches were
entwined in the rustic railing.  Thence
it rose, screening the front windows
up to the very roof, above which it
towered paternally.  Birds innumerable
made their homes in the branches, and
chipmunks in the moss-covered trunk.
Every summer the little creatures ran
nimbly along the lower limbs, peeping
curiously at the sharers of their home;
and young birds, essaying to fly, met
with mishaps and fell into the camp with
broken wings and legs.  The latter were
a great solicitude to Indiana.  She
nursed them carefully, with a knowledge
founded on similar cases in the Rocky
Mountains.  There, she had gained much
experience with birds and animals.

Though it was blowing strongly on
the lake, there was no wind at the camp.
No matter how the elements rage, there
is quiet among the trees, except for a
sighing whisper, to which one could fall
asleep.

"Em—n!" said Mrs. Bunker, taking
a survey when she reached the balcony.
"Enough to give one the blues."

There was a huge deer-head over the
entrance, a trophy of Stillwater's first
year in the Adirondacks.  The large
hall was decorated with many other
trophies from the Rocky Mountains and
elsewhere.  Wild skins of every
description strewed the polished floors
throughout the camp.  Logs crackled brightly
in the great, deep fire-place of the hall,
as they entered, emitting an odor of
pine.  The large, brown eyes of an elk
gazed beneath the branching antlers
mildly down on the fire.  A short, wide
flight of stairs was broken by a balcony
over the hall.  From the railing hung
an antique, Persian silk rug, upon which
the fire played richly.  Beneath the
stair-case and each side of the fire-place
were deep niches, comfortably furnished
with pillows, of which red was the
prevailing tone.  Graceful jars of old
pottery decorated the shelves above, with
here and there a brilliant cluster of
peacock's feathers, or the rich plumage
of a stuffed bird, to relieve the dullness
of the clay.  This decoration was
repeated in all the lower rooms, of which
there were many, one opening into the
other, giving a vista of fire-lit interiors,
the flames catching an occasional flash
of color from a red pillow or an Oriental
scarf hanging carelessly from a shelf.
The camp resounded to the crackling
of logs with the accompanying, healthy
perfume of the burning pine.  Indiana
ran through all the rooms, looking out
of every window upon the lake.  Those
of her own room opened directly into
the balsam tree which ornamented the
front of the camp.  This room had been
built entirely of white maple.  There
was simple furniture of the same wood.
The gleaming white walls and ceiling
served as a background for a continuous
Bacchanalian dance of shadows, cast by
the branches of the giant balsam
screening the windows.  Here, also, logs
crackled cheerily in a deep, wide
fireplace, tiled with white onyx, which
reflected the flames in fitful opaline
gleams.  White bear rugs strewed the
floor.  Indiana, as she looked around
her, had visions of frosty, October
mornings, when she had put her feet
unwillingly out of bed into the warm
fur, and hopped over the intervening
space of cold floor to the fire.  She
remembered awakings, when a breath
of balsam air swept like a cool hand
across her forehead.  Open windows
and fires were Mr. Stillwater's strict
injunctions at the camp.  Indiana, for one,
obeyed him.  She had often opened her
eyes to see a chipmunk sitting on its
haunches, regarding her curiously.  And
birds were in the habit of flying around
her little nest and out again to their own
nest in the tree.  She stood for a
moment by the fire with a sense of glad
content to be once more in this white,
balsam-scented room.  Then she ran
into her mother's room, and into that
reserved for Glen.  On the mantel were
portraits of his mother and father.  They
had insisted on his leaving some of his
belongings there last year, saying that
if he did so, he would be sure to come
again.  Indiana inspected the portraits.
"I'm glad they're here," she thought.
"It'll be a welcome for him."

Mrs. Bunker stood warming her
hands by the hall fire.  "The dampness
isn't off the rooms yet."

"They've bin closed s'long, yer see,"
said Haller, lighting his pipe in the
doorway.  "Waal, I opened up everything,
lettin' in the sun, soon as I
knowed yer was comin'."

"Now that he's lit his pipe," thought
Mrs. Bunker, "it won't go out while
we're here."

He stalked leisurely through the
rooms, throwing a fresh log on every
fire, and looking about proudly, as
though he could well be congratulated
upon his preparations.

"Everything looks very nice, Henry,"
said Mrs. Stillwater, "just as if we left
yesterday."

Another pipe saluted Mrs. Bunker at
the entrance.  It belonged to the second
guide, who was somewhat brisker in
appearance than Haller.

"Waal, haow d'ye find things lookin',
ma'am?" he said, with a cheery laugh.

"They're looking all right, William,"
answered Mrs. Bunker, graciously.  She
liked him better than Haller, who had
an irritating effect on her.

"Will it be a good season for deer?"
said Indiana, running down the stairs.

William puffed slowly and seriously.

"It's going ter be a good season for
deer," he said.

"Oh, I hope so," exclaimed
Mrs. Bunker.  "I promised those
Englishmen good hunting."

"If they come, there'll be good
hunting, Grandma Chazy," said
Indiana, moving close to her, and looking
significantly into her eyes.  Mrs. Bunker
laughed vivaciously.

"Ther' comin' down ter drink,"
volunteered William.

"Already!" exclaimed Indiana, with
a laughing glance at Mrs. Bunker.

"Waal, thar' ain't bin no rain ter
speak of—the springs is dryin' up on
the mauntings."

"Y—es!" corroborated Haller,
joining them with Mrs. Stillwater.  "Ther
comin' down ter the lakes."

"Poor things!" said Mrs. Stillwater.

"Do you pity them, Grandma
Chazy?" whispered Indiana, "I don't
mean the deer."

"Not I," said Mrs. Bunker.  "Wholesale
slaughter isn't the word."

Glen joined them soon after their
arrival, but not before Indiana had
written him a special letter inviting him
to come.  He had a certain pride where
she was concerned.  They roamed the
woods together, renewing acquaintance
with all their old haunts, or rowed and
fished on the lake for hours with Haller
and William.  Mrs. Bunker and her
daughter did not share their enthusiasm
for these sports.  They enjoyed the lake
only in pleasant weather, when they
made trips in "The Indiana" with a
guide.  Sometimes they were met at
the landing by the comfortable and airy
mountain wagon and the fresh mountain
ponies, to take them for one of the
beautiful drives in which that county
abounded.  Occasionally, Indiana and
Glen would join them, changing off
with the reins.

"I'd like to write to the Smiths,"
said Mrs. Bunker, one morning.  "I
promised to invite them up here.  But
you're so half-hearted about it, Indiana.
All you care for is to roam about with
Glen."  She was standing on the
balcony of the boat-house, and did not see
Glen below on the dock.  He smiled
grimly.

"I can't blame her for one,
Mrs. Bunker," he called up, good
humoredly.

Indiana laughed.  She was sitting in
a boat.  After having assumed several
positions in order to ship water, she was
now very busy bailing it out with a large
sponge.

"No offense, Glen," said Mrs. Bunker.

"None whatever," returned Glen,
emerging, and bowing elaborately.

"The two of you are like a couple of
Indians," she continued.

"Here's Haller with the mail," cried
Indiana.  He rowed swiftly towards
them in a light, narrow guide-boat.
Indiana took the letters.

"I brought a letter for yer," shouted
Haller to Mrs. Bunker.

"Then why didn't you deliver it?"
answered Mrs. Bunker sharply.

"*She* tuk it," he answered, chuckling.

Indiana stood up in the boat,
balancing herself admirably, and flung the
letter to Mrs. Bunker, then sat down
examining the other letters and papers
in her lap.

"Nothing for you, Glen."

He overturned a boat and seated
himself upon it, smoking a pipe.  Naturally
dark, he was burnt several shades darker,
from his hair to the loose, open collar of
his flannel shirt.

"You're sitting right in the water,
Indiana.  Your feet must be soaking
wet.  Your mother ought to see you."

Indiana looked at him with a laugh.
He remembered her blue eyes had
given him that same arch glance as a
child, when he had discovered her in
some act of mischief.

"You always liked to put your feet in
the puddles," he said.

"Yes, I always had a passion for
puddles.  As Grandma Chazy would say,
'it'll bode me no good, some day.'"

"It's from Lord Stafford," cried Mrs. Bunker.

"Indeed!" said Indiana, affecting an
English accent.

"They'll be with us in a few days, Indiana."

"Charmed!" said Indiana, standing
up in the boat, and screwing up her face
in imitation of Lord Stafford with his
monocle.

Glen laughed heartily at the expense
of Mrs. Bunker's English friends.

"That's great, Indiana."

"You little rogue," cried Mrs. Bunker,
"I won't have you ridicule my friends.
Oh, I'm so delighted.  You'll find them
lovely company."

"Ya—a—as," drawled Indiana, with
a bored expression, "delighted, I'm—"
the rest was finished in the water, the
boat capsizing suddenly.  Indiana was
near enough to the dock to throw out
an arm to Glen, and he drew her up
laughing, but drenched.

"I knew you'd do it, Indiana," cried
Mrs. Bunker.

Indiana, still clinging to Glen, as the
dock was slippery, smiled faintly, putting
her hand to her side.

"You didn't hurt yourself, did you,
Indiana?" said Glen, anxiously.

"I twisted my side a little—I wanted
to save myself, as I fell—that's all."

"What did she do, Glen?" called
Mrs. Bunker.

Glen lifted her up in his arms, and
carried her up to the camp.

"It was a punishment for making fun
of people, wasn't it, Glen?" she said,
lifting her little wet face from his breast.
"Serves me right, don't it, Glen?"

"No, dear," he said, tenderly.

She tightened her arms about his neck.
"You always took care of me, Glen,"
she said, childishly.  His heart beat
violently against the little soaking bundle.
It was on his lips to say, "I always will,
if you'll only let me, Indiana."  But he
refrained.  Still, as he climbed, he felt
he was mounting the goal where his
heart could rest.

Mrs. Stillwater ran anxiously to meet them.

"It's nothing, Mary," cried
Mrs. Bunker, "she was cutting up some of
her pranks, and fell into the water."

"Just rub her side," said Glen,
delivering his burden, "she sprained it a
little, falling, and put some dry clothes
on her.  You feel all right, don't you,
Indiana?"

"Yes, Glen; thank you," said Indiana, meekly.

Mrs. Bunker often remarked, "Indiana's
always good, when she's sick."

"Now, Indiana," said that lady, after
her granddaughter had been duly dried
and dressed.  "Shall I read you the rest
of the letter?"

"Yes," said Indiana, lying on a couch
before the fire.

"'We have enjoyed our tour
exceedingly.  My nephew has accumulated
much information which will prove of
scientific value—'"

"Oh, he's that sort, is he?" said
Glen, who was seated in a niche by the
fire.  He rose, knocking the ashes from
his pipe, and sauntered out on the balcony.

"Jealous already!" said Mrs. Bunker.
Indiana laughed, looking into the fire.

"Go on with the letter, Grandma Chazy."

Glen looked up into the giant balsam.
A chipmunk sat on one of the branches,
watching him.  It was one which he
and Indiana had succeeded in making
quite tame.  He searched in his pocket
for a nut.  "Chip, chip, chip!" he
called, holding out his hand.  Indiana's
words echoed in his ears.  "You always
took care of me, Glen," with all the
innocent trust that they conveyed.  "She's
known me all her life," he thought,
"there's no going against that.  Now
these Englishmen will come and spoil
everything."  He puffed savagely on
his pipe, still holding out the nut to the
chipmunk, who approached nearer and
nearer.  "I'll have to take a back seat,
now, I suppose.  I guess I'll get out of
the way, altogether, for a little while.
That'll suit me better."  He caught
sight of Haller, below, planting ferns.
"Halloa!" he called.

Haller regarded him interrogatively.

"Any guides at liberty?"

Haller pulled thoughtfully on his pipe.
Meanwhile the chipmunk grabbed the
nut, and disappeared.

"Little rascal," said Glen.

"Thar's Burt."

"Tell him I want him for a week or two."

The morning of the day when Mrs. Bunker
expected her guests, Glen signified
his intention of a temporary departure.

"Why, you are not going to leave us,
Glen?" asked Mrs. Stillwater, innocently.

"Oh, I'm just going off for a little sport."

"And when will you be back, Glen?"

"Oh, I'll be back in a week or so."

"I think it's real mean of you, Glen,"
said Indiana, pouting, "just as we're
expecting company, and men, too—and
Pa isn't here."

"Oh, there won't be any deficiency.
Mrs. Bunker will see to that."

"You're right!  There won't be any
deficiency," and she added sweetly,
"though I don't like to see you go."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bunker.  Here's
Burt for me, now."  Burt was a blonde,
stalwart young fellow, about Glen's
own age.  He rowed swiftly toward the
boat-house, smoking the inevitable pipe.
When he landed, he strapped one of
those deep baskets the guides carry for
provisions, on his back, and climbed up
to the camp.  Mrs. Stillwater hurried
down to the kitchen, to assure herself
that Glen was well provided for on his trip.

They all descended to the lake to see
him go.  When Indiana saw the
accoutrements for departure; the fishing
tackle, guns, and tent rigging, she
commenced to envy the two young fellows
going off together, and felt rather ill
used to be left behind, to do the tame
work of entertaining.  Glen read her
face, and was inwardly delighted.

"We're going to have a rare, good
time, Indiana."

"I believe you," said Indiana, ruefully.

"Do you think there'll be enough
provisions, Glen?" inquired Mrs. Stillwater,
anxiously.

Glen laughed.  The laugh was echoed
by Haller and William, who were assisting
in the ceremony of seeing the young
men off.

"We'll have plenty of game, and
Burt's as fine as any French cook."

Burt took his pipe from his mouth
with a flattered smile and a blush.  He
was as shy as some young girls.

"We'll feed on the delicacies of the
season.  And there's the canned stuff,
which we'll reserve for emergencies."  He
grasped Mrs. Stillwater's hand.

"Don't you be afraid, Mrs. Stillwater.
We won't starve."

"Oh, he won't starve, ma'am.  I'll
see to that," said Burt.

"When we're hungry, we'll come
home."  They both laughed heartily.

"Do you think there'll be good sport,
Burt?" said Indiana.

Burt, sitting in the boat, arranging his
paraphernalia, looked at her admiringly.

"There'll be sport," he replied.

"Oh, Glen; are you going to take
your mandolin?"

"Why not?  It'll cheer us up nights,
by the fire."

Burt grinned in visible delight.

"Well, I won't say good-bye for such
a short time."  He shook them all by
the hand.  "Take care of yourselves."

"Good-bye, Glen—no, I won't say
good-bye.  I hope you'll have a good
time, and come home safe."

"Thank you, Indiana."  He waved
his hat to all and jumped into the boat.
Haller pushed them off.

Indiana ran down to the end of the
dock and threw her arms out to Glen.
"Oh, take me along!"

Burt stopped rowing.

"All right," said Glen, "there's room
for you; will you come?"

"Yes," said Indiana.

"We'll take care of her, Mrs. Stillwater;
won't we, Burt?"

"Why, of course," said Burt.  "She
won't starve—I'll see to that."

"Be off, the pair of you!" cried
Mrs. Bunker.  Burt took the oars again,
laughing, while Glen flourished his cap,
looking at Indiana, and Haller and
William shouted sportsman's jokes from
the shore.

"There they go," said Indiana,
waving her handkerchief.  She then sat
down on the dock, watching the boat
grow smaller and smaller.  The strains
of the mandolin floated to them over
the water.

"Indiana, you look as though you
hadn't a friend left.  If I thought as
much of a person as that, I wouldn't
let him out of my sight."

"Well, Grandma Chazy, Glen's my best friend."

"And look at your mother!  She's
actually crying."

"Well, I hated to see him going off
like that—I—I'm so fond of him."

"Ma's a good soul," cried Indiana,
jumping up and throwing herself into
Mrs. Stillwater's arms.  "Yes, she is."

"Well, I am not disputing that, Indiana."

"He was so set on going," said
Mrs. Stillwater, holding Indiana to her.  "I
think it was because of those Englishmen.
He don't like strangers."

"A pity about him," retorted Mrs. Bunker,
sharply.  "Does he want to
monopolize Indiana altogether?  He
went because he might be of some use
for once.  He could have livened things
up a little nights with his mandolin, but
I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of
saying so.  Well, I'm just as well
pleased.  He might have been
unmannerly or bearish."

"Not Glen!" said Indiana.

"Oh, *Glen*," repeated Mrs. Bunker,
imitating her.  Haller, who was washing
out "The Indiana" and observing at
the same time, gave vent to a long
guffaw.  Mrs. Bunker looked at him
crossly.  "I can't bear that Haller,"
she said, as they climbed up to the
camp.  "He's always making faces at me."

"When you think he's making faces,
he's only smiling, I tell you," said
Indiana.  "He's a fine guide; what more
do you want?"

"Wear your red dress to-night,
Indiana," said Mrs. Bunker, ignoring this
last remark.

"I think white is so much prettier for
a young girl," suggested Mrs. Stillwater.

"Yes, that's the conventional thing,"
said Mrs. Bunker.  "Well, let her look
like a bread and butter miss—I have no
objection."

"I don't want to look like a bread
and butter miss," interrupted Indiana.

"Wear what your mother wishes, Indiana."

"Oh, I'm satisfied with anything,"
apologetically murmured Mrs. Stillwater.
"Let the child please herself."  She
looked questioningly at her daughter.
The latter, looking very self-important,
declined to commit herself just then.

"Take your finger out of your mouth,
Indiana," said Mrs. Bunker, sharply.
"It's time you stopped that baby habit."

Indiana, whenever she was making a
decision of any kind, still put her finger
in her mouth as a help to thought.

Later, in her granddaughter's room,
Mrs. Bunker said in the voice of an
oracle.  "Take my advice and wear
your red silk, Indiana."

"He won't think it's loud?" asked Indiana.

"You're too much of a child to look
loud in anything.  But it will be so
effective and a little audacious.  That's
what takes.  He'll be sure to *see* you in
that dress."  And, as she went, she
fired a last injunction, "wear your red
silk; it'll hit him right in the eye."





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.. _`Guests`:

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   CHAPTER VI.


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   Guests

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Meanwhile the travellers were
approaching their destination.
They had compared the Hudson River
with the Thames and the Rhine, and
were now watching the forest tracts and
the streams choked with logs awaiting
the elements.

"Uncle Nelson," said Lord Canning,
"this is the first time in my rememberance
that I have visited people I did not
know well, in a country I have never seen."

Lord Stafford glanced sleepily at his
nephew from under his tweed travelling
cap.  They were in the smoking car.
"There's a charm about everything
fresh and new," he murmured.  "That's
what you're always saying, Thurston."

"There certainly is," said the other,
eagerly.  "I realize it in this fresh,
young, healthy country.  It has given
me many new sensations.  I felt quite
old when I first came here—"

"Old!" repeated Lord Stafford.  "You?"

"Just turned forty, my hair commencing
to grey."  Lord Canning laughed,
and then sighed.  "Yes," he continued,
smoking thoughtfully, "there is nothing
like fresh scenes.  They give new food
for the mind—another impetus to life—a
man like myself needs such a stimulus—if
I should continue to rust in England,
I would shortly become—antiquated.
Do you notice that the trees are for the
most part conical in shape, Uncle Nelson?"

"You always were a restless character,
Thurston."

"Nature designed me for an explorer."

"You'll never be satisfied until you
undertake that expedition to the pole—"

"Never—unless—"

"Unless what?"

"A new interest should arise in my
life—necessarily something very absorbing."

"I know of nothing, except—perhaps—a
woman.  And as for that, every
mamma in England has despaired of you."

Lord Canning laughed heartily, and
his uncle yawned and closed his eyes,
considering he had satisfactorily
disposed of the subject.

"We are strangers to our host,"
recommenced Lord Canning, after a short
survey of the vanishing prospect.  "The
invitation was necessarily off-hand, but
very hearty."

"They do everything in an off-hand
way, over here," said Lord Stafford,
"at least, so it seems to me."

"We have been travelling too much
to judge very correctly of manners and
customs," answered his nephew.  "And
have we met the entire family?"

"I believe so."

"Mrs. Bunker—"

"Mrs. Bunker!" exclaimed Lord
Stafford, sitting up and rubbing his
eyes.  "Isn't she a lively woman?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Stillwater and daughter."

"The little girl," said Lord Stafford,
sinking back on the cushions, "the
little, blonde girl, who had plenty to
say for herself."

"She did not really say so much,"
returned Lord Canning, taking out
another cigar.  "It was how she said it."

"Well, she conveyed the impression
that she was not backward," remarked
Lord Stafford.

"By the way, Uncle," the younger
man lit his cigar, laughing amusedly.
"Did I ever tell you of a peculiar dream
I once had?"

"Dream?"

"About Miss Stillwater."

"Have you been dreaming about that
little girl?"

"Didn't I tell you?  I thought I had."

"Ha, ha, ha!  You've been dreaming
about little Miss Stillwater—that's rich."

"Well, wait until you hear it.  Then
you'll have good reason to laugh.  It
was quite too absurd."

"Well."

"The night before we started for the
West—the night we met Mrs. Bunker
at the Waldorf Hotel, in New York—"

"Mrs. Bunker—one never knows
what that woman is going to say
next—she is so—"

"She introduced us to the family, and
Miss Stillwater and I had some
conversation—not much, but quite enough, as
you will see—about bears."

"Bears?"

"She had been used to shooting
them, in the Rocky Mountains."

"The little girl—the blonde one?"

"The little blonde one," repeated
Lord Canning, with a softer intonation.
"Well, I dreamt I saw her riding on
the back of a grizzly, over the highest
peak of the Rocky Mountains.  She was
in full evening dress, and on seeing me,
she hilariously waved a bunch of
hyacinths—she carried those flowers the
night I met her."

"Mrs. Bunker had carnations—I took
one—ha, ha, ha!"

"I was on my knees examining strata.
When I saw the lady riding towards
me, I rose and bowed profoundly.  But
she returned my polite salute by
throwing her bouquet directly in my face—I
felt the blow, I smelt the hyacinths—then
I awoke—before the lady apologized,
allowing that she had that
intention.  It was all so absurd and
incongruous, and yet so distinct.  Miss
Stillwater looked as natural as life, and
sat the bear in such a graceful fashion—she
might have been riding a finely bred
horse in Hyde Park."

Lord Stafford, listening with closed
eyes, made an articulate noise.  Whether
it was expressive of wonder, disbelief,
or ridicule, it was difficult to say.

"But what I consider most remarkable,
is that I saw the Rockies very much
as I saw them in reality, later on.  I
explain this on the score of—suggestion.
Miss Stillwater has spent some time in
the Rockies.  Naturally, our conversation
recalled them to her mind, and
she, of course, unconsciously suggested
them to me.  It was quite—psychic."

"Nightmare," murmured Lord Stafford,
sleepily, "what did you eat for supper?"

"I don't know," said Lord Canning,
disgustedly.  "Don't attribute
everything to what one eats."

"You will, when you're my age.  Now
it's 'suggestion', and 'quite psychic.'  If
that little, dainty, yellow-haired Miss
Assurance had been an unattractive,
elderly person, she wouldn't have
suggested a pin's worth to you—beyond the
fact that she was ugly.  I must say, I
never heard you go on like that before,
Thurston."

"Go on like *what*?"

"Oh, about your dreams.  Only old
women tell their dreams.  Ha, ha, ha!"

"You are quite mistaken, Uncle
Nelson, dreams have been made the
subject of scientific research."

"Oh, poppycock!  You'll be telling
fortunes in a tea cup next, ha, ha, ha!"

"I am glad you are amused, Uncle Nelson."

"I am—it's rich—ha, ha, ha, ha!—Ha,
ha, ha, ha!  Thurston, will you
oblige me, and tell when there's anything
to look at beside these interminable
forests?  I'm going to nap a little."

Lord Canning resumed his watch at
the window.  "Beautiful forests," he
thought, "for the most part untouched
and untrammelled.  We seem to be
plunging deeper and deeper into a
virgin region.  I feel strangely expectant,
as though something were awaiting me
there.  Something that I have hitherto
missed in my life—my sober, colorless
life—awaiting me there.  If I should
tell Uncle Nelson this, he would ask
me what I had eaten for lunch."

In a little while he became conscious
that the train was slackening speed and
felt the exhilaration, of most people, at
the idea of being transported higher
than the ordinary level.

"Uncle Nelson!"

"Yes."

"There is something else."

"What?"

"Clouds—ha, ha, ha, ha!"

Lord Stafford looked disgustedly out
at the scurrying white masses.

"Do you want h'anything, your Lordship?"

"It's about time you showed up, Flash.
Unstrap that plaid—it's beastly cold."

"It h'is, your Lordship—compared
to the 'eat in New York," carefully
tucking Lord Stafford into the plaid.
Flash was a young fellow, of the
ordinary English cockney type.

The train labored on painfully up
into the heart of the mountains.  Lord
Stafford slept while his nephew smoked
and mused, watching the clouds, barely
perceptible now in the fading light.

They felt a jerk, the train stopped
suddenly.  Flash put his head in, "We're
a h'our and a 'alf late, your Lordship.
We won't h'arrive until h'eight o'clock."

"What an infernal nuisance."

"H'any h'orders, your Lordship?"

"Get out!"

When they finally arrived it was
pitch black night, no moon nor stars.
The rude little station was lit by torches
flaming in the mist and wind.  Beyond,
impenetrable darkness.  A storm was
brewing over the mountains.  Haller's
face, as he greeted the travellers with
one of his contortions, looked weird in
the torchlight.  They followed him out
to the wagon, in which they sank with a
sigh of relief.  The trip, with the delay,
had been tedious.  Haller whipped the
ponies up briskly.  The wagon careered
recklessly from side to side as they drove,
and the wind drove the mist into their
faces.

"I suppose you know your road, my
good man?" said Lord Stafford.

"There's no risk of falling over a
precipice or anything of that kind, is
there?  It's so confoundedly black."

Haller chuckled.  "Them ponies
know the're way—the've been bred up
in these parts.  I'd trust them sooner'n
myself."

"Indeed!" said Lord Canning.

"Is this our destination?" asked Lord
Stafford, as they stopped at the landing.

"Oh, we ain't no ways near thar yet,"
said Haller, with another chuckle.  He
raised a lantern and showed them "The
Indiana" waiting at the dock, the lake
lapping against her sides.

"Must we get in that?" said Stafford,
peering out into the darkness of the lake.

"Waal, yes; if you want ter go to
Camp Indiana.  It's at the far end of
the lake."

"Camp Indiana!" repeated Lord
Canning to himself.  "After *her*, of
course.  They have a curious faculty
over here, of naming people after places
and *vice versa*."

"What sort of a boat is this 'ere, my
man?" asked Flash, after they were
installed and on their way.

"Naptha launch."

"No danger of explosion?" he asked, cheerily.

"Waal, yer never can tell—yer never
can tell."

Lord Canning laughed heartily.  As
they puffed along, the wind commenced
to wail dismally, echoed by the
mountains, until it seemed as though a pack
of wild beasts were howling in the night.
At intervals a camp fire enlivened the
prospect, blazing cheerily down on the
shore.  The shadow-dance of the flames
on the water, together with the outlines
of human forms feeding the fire,
produced a fantastic effect on the travellers.
At Camp Indiana an enormous fire had
been kindled to welcome the guests.
The boat-house was lit up with different
colored lanterns.  Haller shouted as they
passed in the dock, and was answered
by William, who hurried down and
assisted the disembarking.  Haller,
holding the lantern, lit them up to the camp.
A flood of light streamed from the open
door, in which Mrs. Bunker stood.

"Well, here you are at last—so glad
to see you."

She shook hands with them vigorously.

"My man Flash," said Lord Stafford.

"Kitty, show Mr. Flash the
gentlemen's rooms.  What a nuisance the
train was late.  The world stops when
one comes up here."

Mrs. Stillwater met them in the hall.
"I'm so pleased you have come," she
said in her soft gracious voice.

"Thank you, Mrs. Stillwater."

"How do you do, Lord Canning?"
said Indiana with a hearty shake of the
hand.  "Too bad the train was late.
It's what you must expect in these
primitive parts."

Lord Canning looked about him, receiving
the impression of warmth, light
and luxury, but no sign of primitiveness.
Coming out of the darkness and the
wind, into the brilliant hall, he was a
little dazzled, and for the moment was
at a loss for something to say to Indiana.
He stared at the brilliant little figure
standing near the fire, the flames
reflecting red lights from her dress on her
laughing face and her yellow hair, with
the Persian rug for a background.  "An
Arabian night's vision," he thought.

"It's a tedious trip," said Indiana.
"You must be starved to death."

"I am so interested in my surroundings,
that I can plead no sense of
fatigue," answered Lord Canning.

"This is a jolly fire," said Lord
Stafford.  "It's like a glimpse of heaven
here, after that awful black night."

Mrs. Bunker shortly led the way to
the dining room, where a shaded red
drop-light threw a rosy glow on the
well-equipped table, upon which reposed a
centrepiece of wild ferns.  The easy,
natural manner of the hostesses soon
made their guests feel perfectly at home.

"Don't hesitate to smoke, gentlemen!"
exclaimed Mrs. Bunker, after
dinner.  "This is Liberty Hall."

"We didn't expect this, Mrs. Bunker,"
said Lord Stafford, as they walked
through the rooms, "when you invited
us to 'rough it' with you in the woods."

"I assure you, Lord Stafford, that we
consider this camping out," laughed
Mrs. Bunker.  "Now which chair are
you going to take?  This one is
comfortable.  Place it near the fire."

"Very artistic and most original,"
said Lord Canning, surveying his
surroundings.  "I have never seen
anything like it."

There was a note of simplicity in all
this luxury, even to the dress of the
ladies, which struck him agreeably.
Indiana sat in the midst of the group,
talking and laughing unreservedly.
Lord Canning, leaning back in a large
armchair smoking his cigar, listened
attentively, trying to find some clue to
her character in the careless words.
He finally realized this was foolish.
She was evidently little more than a
child, with no deep realization of life, as
yet; a child with her own charm.  There
was no doubt of that.  He gazed deeper
and deeper into the fire.

"Lord Canning, you are so absorbed
in the fire the rest of us might be
jealous," said Indiana.

"There is no occasion for jealousy,"
he answered, looking directly at her.
"But the fire is certainly fascinating—and
productive of thought.  I have a
recollection of another, outside, which
welcomed us very cheerfully, when we
arrived.  Is it still burning?"

"Oh yes," said Indiana, "our camp
fire is still burning."

"I should like to see it, may I?"

"Certainly," said Indiana rising,
"Lord Stafford, are you also curious?"

"Oh Miss Stillwater, I'm so comfortable,
don't ask me to go out again! this
is such a charming fire.  Now
Mrs. Bunker, let me poke it.  This is the way
we do it in England."

"Run along, Indiana," said Mrs. Bunker,
sweetly.

Without, the night was still black, but
the storm had not yet broken.  The
fire down on the shore lit up the lake
and the boat-house.  Haller and
William were throwing on logs, and in the
red glare Kitty could be seen standing,
talking volubly to Flash, who listened
with deferential interest.

"The boat-house looks very pretty in
this light," said Lord Canning.

"There's such a cozy room in it with
a fire," asserted Indiana.  "We've had
rare, old times there.  We go down
nights, and make things in chafing
dishes."

"What a novel idea!  And is there a
fire burning there now?"

"Oh, yes!  The guides keep the fires
always going—when it's cold."

"I should like to see this cozy room,
where you make things in chafing
dishes.  May I?"

"Certainly.  Be careful, Lord Canning!
It's pitch dark, and you don't
know the way!  There!  I knew you'd
stumble—you'd better take my hand."

"I—I really think I had better,"
said Lord Canning, helplessly.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Weaver`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   The Weaver

.. vspace:: 2

The storm spent its full force in the
night.  The wind raged in the
clearings and upon the lakes.  But
Camp Indiana, sheltered by the woods,
heard nothing of the angry elements
beyond the continuous sighing of the
trees, which, when the wind was most
fierce, grew into a painful sobbing
whisper.  The pines of the North Woods
sing varied harmonies, always in a minor
key; sometimes, it is a sacred anthem,
sometimes a tragic prophecy, sometimes
a death chant and sometimes a sad lullaby,
such as a bereaved wife might croon
to her child.

When the guests emerged upon the
balcony in the morning the clouds still
shrouded the mountains and the lake.
There was nothing to be seen but a
white mist.

"We are literally in the clouds," said
Lord Canning pacing the balcony.
"But what a soft rare air, and that
strong odor of pine; it is most
exhilarating."  He drew a deep breath.

"What a magnificent tree," said Lord
Stafford.  "They've built it into the
balcony.  Look, Thurston!  Isn't that
a unique idea?"  He bent over until his
body was half in the tree.  "By George,
there's a chipmunk!"

"Balsam!" exclaimed Lord Canning,
examining a branch.  He ascended the
steps looking up at the tree.
"Magnificent!  A natural ornament!  What a
novel thought to make it a part of the
house.  I am reminded of the roof-tree
of olden times, Uncle Nelson."

"Quite so!" said Lord Stafford.

"Look!" continued his nephew.
"The clouds are rising—slowly.  There
is the lake!  How blue, and what beautiful
slopes—how rich in foliage.  Such a
contrast in greens; the vivid emerald
of the maple trees, with the dark shade
of the hemlock and other pine varieties—there
is no green like theirs—and that
faint, very faint touch of red, here and
there—a foretaste of Autumn.  Look at
those wild crags, with the trees rooted
in their clefts!  This is a panorama of
clouds.  How systematically they rise,
one veil after the other.  The mountains
are just becoming perceptible—do
you see their shadowy outline behind
that last thin veil?  It is rising—slowly—slowly.
Little fragments of mist are
floating everywhere.  Upon my word,
it is quite unreal—like a dream scene."

"Ha, ha, ha!  I'd advise you not to
broach the subject of dreams again."

"Charming!  The dark, rich blue of
those mountains, with the little mists
curling upon them, here and there.
That low cloud on the lake here, has
remained stationary.  Ah, now it is
rising.  Uncle Nelson, do you see anything?"

Lord Canning had suddenly discerned
in the mist, the phantom outline of a
female figure kneeling in a canoe.

"Yes, by George!  Do you think it
could be a peculiar form taken by the
mist?"

"Either that—or—it might be the
spirit of some unhappy Indian maiden,
a heroine of one of the legends of this
region.  Ah, the sun is coming out—now
we shall see her disappear!"

On the contrary, the sun striking
through the mist revealed Indiana
paddling a red canoe.  Bareheaded, the
sleeves of her red blouse rolled above
the elbow, the sun caught her in a
sudden flash of scarlet and gold, so that
she seemed an apotheosis in the cloud,
of Lord Canning's Indian maiden.

"It's Miss Stillwater!" cried his
uncle.  "Ha, ha, ha—you with your
dreams and your Indian maidens."

Lord Canning rubbed his eyes,
watching Indiana paddle toward the
boathouse with swift, unerring strokes.  "Let
us go down and meet her!" he said.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" exclaimed
Mrs. Bunker, joining them, as
they descended.  "How did you sleep
last night?"

"Extremely well, thank you, my dear
lady," answered Lord Stafford.  "I
cannot speak for my nephew, he is
addicted to dreams.  Ha, ha, ha.  That
sort of sleeper is always rather restless.
Don't you think so, Mrs. Bunker?"

"This," said Lord Canning, indicating
the prospect, "is very charming,
quite unique in its way.  I really cannot
remember seeing anything like it."

Lord Stafford slipped.  "Be careful,
Lord Stafford.  It's the pine needles.
They fall year after year.  You see how
soft and yielding they make the ground.
But it's slippery on an incline."

They reached the boat-house in time
to see Indiana jump from her canoe.

"An extremely picturesque little
craft," said Lord Canning, after they
had exchanged the morning greetings.

"Birch bark," said Indiana.
"There's another here."

"Ah, a white one.  But this red canoe
is very effective on the lake.  We were
quite startled, when you first appeared.
Were we not, Uncle?"

"Ha, ha, ha, ha.  My nephew thought
you were the spirit of some Indian
maiden, who had died a tragic death."

"You glided out of the mist in such a
wraith-like fashion," said Lord Canning.

"There was an Indian maiden"—

"Oh, keep those ghost stories for the
camp fire, Indiana!  Before breakfast
is no time for them."

"Don't forget, please, Miss Stillwater!"
said Lord Canning.  "Positively
at the camp fire to-night."

"At the camp fire to-night," repeated
Indiana, in a tragic voice.

"Oh, Indiana can tell you any number
of legends about these parts.  She
picks them up from the guides," said
Mrs. Bunker.

"I am always interested in the legends
of a country.  There is so much to be
gleaned from them."

"Exactly, Lord Canning," said Mrs. Bunker.
"That's what I think."

"I shall look forward to hearing them
all, Miss Stillwater," said Lord Canning,
"by the camp fire of course.  Every
night a story."

"Like Scheherezade in the Arabian
Nights," said Indiana, "amusing the
sultan to save her head."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha.  Quite so, Miss
Stillwater," laughed Lord Canning.

"But I don't think my stories would
last a hundred and one nights, Lord
Canning," replied Indiana, putting her
hands behind her back, and meeting his
persistent gaze mischievously.

"Too bad," he answered, contemplatively.
"I should hate to cut off that
head.  Don't you know anything else
appropriate for a camp fire, which
might serve to amuse me, and prolong
your life.  Can you tell fortunes?"

"Oh, Indiana's great at that!" said
Mrs. Bunker.

"Good—by cards or consulting the palm?"

"Both!" said Indiana promptly.
"Learned it from the girls at school.  I
can also tell your fortune in a tea cup."

"Indeed, you must initiate me."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha—I prophesied you'd
come to it—telling fortunes in a tea cup.
That's rich.  Mrs. Bunker, I'll explain
to you—later!"

"What does he mean?" asked Indiana.

"I'll tell you by the camp fire, Miss
Stillwater.  Can you interpret dreams?"

Lord Stafford laughed with intense
enjoyment.

"I have a dream book, I'll study it up."

"Well, in view of your many accomplishments,
your head will be quite safe."

"How about yours?" she said, shyly,
bending down to take her jacket from
the canoe.

"Ha, ha, ha!  Quite so, Miss Stillwater."

"I'm not sure about mine," he
answered, smiling.

"And if you lose it?"

"The Sultan will meet his fate
philosophically, repeating, 'Kismet, and Allah
is wise, saith the Prophet.'"

"Breakfast is served," exclaimed
Kitty, running breathlessly into the
boat-house.

"You must be hungry," said Mrs. Bunker.
"You were up so early.  Indiana
rises at an unearthly hour, here.
She's on the lake at six, sometimes."

"Do not be surprised if you should
see me also at that unearthly hour, Miss
Stillwater.  I, too, have a passion for early
rising, in a place like this!  There are
some beautiful boats here!"

"Yes, this is a St. Lawrence.  I
always take ma out in that.  She likes
it, because it's steady.  But it don't run
like this one—this is my pet.  A real
Adirondack cedar wood."

"Indiana," read Lord Canning.
"Everything here is named after you.
You're the prevailing spirit of the place.
Will you take me out on the lake after
breakfast, and teach me how to manage
an Adirondack boat?"

"This is a dangerous lake, Lord
Canning," said Mrs. Bunker.  "You
wouldn't think so, to look at it now."

Lord Canning turned and glanced at
the beautiful vista of the lake, sparkling,
blue and serene, between the mountains.

"A squall can come up, any minute—a
regular tornado—and blow you and
your shell of a boat to Jericho."

"And what would you do, Miss Stillwater,"
asked Lord Canning, in visible
alarm, "if you were out in your little
canoe, and were caught in one of these
sudden squalls?"

"Head for the shore.  Besides, I'm a swimmer."

"Are you?"  She looked very young
to him, standing there in her little, short
skirt and loose blouse, her hair blowing
about in the breeze, which came freshly
over the lake.  Younger, even, than
when he had first seen her.

"Now, Lord Stafford," said Mrs. Bunker,
after breakfast.  "You, my
daughter, and myself, will take a trip in
'The Indiana.'  The horses will be
waiting at the landing, and after we
have explored the lake, I think we'll
have time for a short drive.  Will that
program suit you?"

"Ha, ha, ha!  Everything that you
arrange is bound to be delightful, Mrs. Bunker."

"We'll leave the young people to
their own devices.  Lord Canning is so
bent on learning to row an Adirondack
boat."

"Ha, ha, ha!  Yes, Mrs. Bunker."

"It's a dangerous lake, Lord Stafford—I
warned him."

"You did, Mrs. Bunker—your conscience
can rest easily."

"I feel I'm taking an advantage, Miss
Stillwater," said Lord Canning, lounging
comfortably in the bow of Indiana's pet
boat, "to sit here and let you do all the
work.  Let me take the oars.  I have
been watching you closely—I think you
can trust me."

"Sit down!" commanded Indiana.

"Dear me, what have I done?"

"You can't change places in an
Adirondack boat, in the middle of the lake.
It would tip over, and we'd both flop
in."  She laughed merrily.

"Her laugh has the vital ring of
youth," thought Lord Canning.  "I
might learn to laugh like that again, if
she would teach me—"

"Glen and I have often tried it, just for
devilment, but then Glen is more used to
these boats than you, Lord Canning—"

"Glen!"

"Oh, I forgot.  I think everyone
knows Glen—everyone does in America,
who happens to know us.  He's one of
the family."

"A relative?"

"No!"

"Not a relative, and one of the
family," thought Lord Canning.  "Young,
old or middle aged?"

"Glen's only twenty-four and
handsome as a picture."

"Only twenty-four, and handsome as
a picture," thought Lord Canning.

"Wouldn't you like to smoke, Lord
Canning?"

"There's something of the witch
about you, Miss Stillwater.  That's just
what I'm longing to do.  You are sure
you don't mind?"

Indiana shook her head.  Her cheeks
were glowing, her eyes sparkling from
the exercise.

"That's very good of you, Miss
Stillwater."  He lit his cigar leisurely, then
leaned back with a long sigh of content.
"You're a splendid oarswoman, Miss
Stillwater; such long, graceful strokes.
That splash of color here and there in
the woods—it's most effective—especially,
when it's reflected in the lake—like
this branch—look—we are just nearing
it—how gracefully it droops over the
water.  It's most delightful here—near
the shore—let us linger a little
while—do you mind?  There's no occasion for
this terrific speed, is there?  That's
better—now we are merely gliding.
Lean back, Miss Stillwater!  Won't you
have this pillow?  Are you quite
comfortable?  Are you sure you are quite
comfortable?  These Adirondack oars
are very convenient—just let them
swing—I see—and take them up when you
are ready.  A stroke or two, now and
then, will be quite sufficient to send us
along—not yet—don't disturb yourself.
No, we will not run into anything—I'll
see to that—you look very nice lying
there.  The water is like a perfect
mirror here, under the trees—every leaf
and twig is reflected—beautiful—so
restful—I could drift like this—"

"I thought so," cried Indiana jumping up.

"Dear me, what is the matter?"

"We're caught in a tree!"

"Why so we are—be careful—that
branch will strike your face—I think I
can reach it—a most obstinate branch—it
persists in bending your way.  Well,
I can't blame it—there—how ever did
this occur?"

"Why—you insisted on my leaving
everything to you—I yielded from pure
amiability—but I foresaw what would
happen, because you hadn't the slightest
idea where you were drifting."

"But I know quite well, where I'm
drifting—"

"Then how were we caught in this tree?"

"Ah, that's another story—"

"You were certainly not looking ahead."

"Then where was I looking?  You
ought to know."

"You were lying back with your
hands clasped behind your head, saying,
'I could go on like this forever,' or
something to that effect, and we went
plump into the tree."

"Poor Miss Stillwater—I'm a great
trial—you'll never take me out again,
will you?"

"Well, I won't say that—"

"I'm so glad you didn't.  I think it's
rather a novel sensation to be caught in
a tree."

"Everything is a sensation to you,
Lord Canning."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha.  When you are my
age, Miss Stillwater, you will also
appreciate a new sensation.  May I ask
the object of those violent efforts?"

"Lord Canning—do you realize
you're on the tree as well as in it.
There's an immense branch extending
under the water, and with our combined
weight we won't get off in a hurry."

"Where is the hurry—there are no
trains to be caught, I believe."

"Yes, but I wanted to show you the
lake this morning—that would be
something.  There is so much for you
to do and see."

"Restless little American spirit," said
Lord Canning.  "Now if you will hand
me that oar—although I appreciate your
anxiety to show me everything without
delay—I, with my slow English methods—prefer
to take things by degrees—if
you have no objection, Miss Stillwater;
I am enjoying this immensely."

"Really," said Indiana doubtfully.

"I give you my word.  Now let me
have things my own way.  There's no
necessity to show me the whole lake at
once.  I would rather prolong the
pleasure—"

"We're off!"

"Slowly, Miss Stillwater! we're drifting
once more.  Ah, look at this giant
rock looming above us; how dark and
grim—"

"That's called the 'Devil's Pulpit.'  The
water right here is five hundred
feet deep."

"And a moment ago it was quite
shallow.  How black and impenetrable—'The
Devil's Pulpit.'  I think I can
sniff an odor of sulphur.  Five hundred
feet deep.  How quickly the shallows
change to the depths—how quickly—don't
hurry—what a gruesome spot.
Just the place for a ghost story—that
Indian maiden we were talking of this
morning—will she do?"

"Well, there was a certain tribe—"

"Pardon me, Miss Stillwater.  I forgot
that story had already been reserved for
the camp fire.  Everything in its place."

"How systematic—"

"I don't believe in taking all the good
things at once, like a greedy child—besides,
poor Scheherezade's head is at
stake!  I would not deprive her of one
night's respite—"

"Suppose you tell me a story, Lord
Canning—one of your adventures.  You
have travelled so much, you must have
had a very interesting life."

"Interesting in one way—barren in
another.  Don't lean over like that,
please."

"Your uncle says you have a passion
for exploring."

"Yes.  I suppose it has never occurred
to you, Miss Stillwater, that this
passion for exploring, in a man of my
settled years—Miss Stillwater, I beg of
you to be careful, remember it is five
hundred feet.  This passion for exploring
might exist only for want of another
interest—a dear and sacred interest—most
men of my age possess.  Life has
withheld from me, so far—it's most
precious gift.  I shall hold it the sweeter
when bestowed.  Do you find it interesting
to peer into the depths, Miss Stillwater?"

"Very!  They say—"

"Yes, what do they say?"

"That if you look into them long
enough, here at the Devil's Pulpit, you
are seized with an impulse to throw
yourself in."

"Dear me; well, I have no fear for
you at present.  But I shall take care
you do not come here unaccompanied.
What you have told me, however, is a
fact which has been often proved.
Whether it is a rocky precipice, five
hundred feet of water, or a human soul—the
depths have a dangerous fascination.
Are you afraid, Miss Stillwater?
Don't you wish to leave this dangerous
spot?"

"I want my story, first."

"You will persist in peering into the
depths—beware of them!"

"I'm not afraid."

"No, I don't think you are."

"Well, the story."

"Ah, yes—the story—you're in the
mood to listen?"

"Yes, yes.  Is it to be one of your
adventures?"

"Not exactly.  I'm not in the mood
to relate an adventure.  That will keep
for another time.  This is a charmed
spot, you see—as its name would
denote—a spell has been laid on me, in the
shadow of this rock, and I am obliged
to speak the words that come into my
head."

"Then I won't consider you responsible."

"No—not here."  Lord Canning
folded his arms and gazed down into
the impenetrable depths.  "There was
once a weaver.  He wove a dull, gray
woof—always the same gray woof.
Sometimes, he would look up at the
rich blue of the morning sky, then go
on weaving his gray web.  Sometimes,
he would glance at the sunset, and
marvel at the gorgeous hues of the
clouds—but there was never a gleam of
color in the web, that he wove—it was
always the same, dull gray.  Sometimes,
the laughing face of a child would peep
into his—and he would gaze longingly
back—yearning to snatch the blue of
the eyes, the gold of the hair—for that
colorless web which Fate had set him to
weave.  Once he dreamed that a sudden
burst of sunlight streamed upon him, as
he sat at his loom.  He put up his hand
and drew down the rays one after the
other, weaving them into his work.
And as he wove, he heard singing—a
choir of beautiful, jubilant voices.  The
web, transformed into a gleaming fabric
of light, gladdened the soul of the
weaver.  Then he awoke, and saw the
dull, gray woof in the loom.  He went
on, patiently weaving the web which
Fate had given him.  But his soul
cherishes the hope—that some day,
perhaps, his dream will come true."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The World's Rest`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   The World's Rest

.. vspace:: 2

Indiana lay back with closed eyes.
Lord Canning's deep, well-modulated
voice, soothing her alert faculties
into a dream of consciousness.  He
looked at her as he concluded.  The
innocence of her face, with its closed
eyelids, appealed to him.  She looked
very childish, lying at the foot of the
giant rock.  Without any comment, she
looked out on the lake.  He lit a cigar
and smoked it in silence.  Both were
thinking of the weaver.

"Did you feel that icy breath from
the rock, Miss Stillwater?"

Indiana laughed.  "We come for that
on hot days, and lie in the shade and
read.  It's always cool here."

"Who is 'we'—may I ask?"

"Glen and I."

"Glen again," thought Lord Canning.
"I have an absurd feeling against
another having been here with
her—another, who is only twenty-four and
handsome as a picture—"

Indiana commenced to row.

"Going?  Perhaps you are right—this
is a dangerous spot."

"People are not so carried away with
the Adirondacks at first," ventured
Indiana.  "But they grow on them after a
while."

"Yes," said Lord Canning, studying
her attentively.  "I find a great many
things grow on me in this part of the
world.  Why do you laugh, Miss Stillwater?
Have I said anything amusing?
I should like to learn how to laugh like
that.  Will you teach me?"

Indiana laughed again.

"May I have the first lesson now?"

"Oh, I can't give you any lessons—you
must just listen, that's all."

"I see—just listen.  It is shallow
again—what a beautiful white, sandy
bed—how restlessly the minnows
dart—here and there—backwards and
forwards.  They symbolize the activity of
your nation, Miss Stillwater.  Oh, what
a cunning little stair-case cut in the
rock—it looks so inviting—I should like to
get off and climb it, and sit up there in
the trees—may I?"

"No," said Indiana, "there are so
many other pretty places, I want to
show you."

"But I have a fancy for this—obduracy
itself.  Well, will you promise to take me
here again another day—do promise!"

"I promise," said Indiana.

The sun was long past its meridian,
when they reached home.  Mrs. Bunker,
her daughter and Lord Stafford, were
watching from the boat-house balcony.
Lord Canning was rowing, without a
coat, bareheaded.  Indiana, comfortably
ensconced in pillows opposite, was
employed in spattering water over his face,
regardless of his laughing remonstrances.
Their voices—Indiana's high-pitched
but sweet, mingled with Lord Canning's
deep tones—were carried by the clear
air over the water.

"Allow me to thank you for a delightful
morning, Miss Stillwater," said Lord
Canning, ceremoniously, as he helped
her from the boat.  He stood looking
looking back on the lake.

"Are you coming, Lord Canning?"
asked Indiana, her foot on the little
rustic staircase leading from the dock
up into the boat-house.

"One moment, if you please," said
Lord Canning, still looking at the lake.
"I want to fix firmly in my mind all the
details of this delightful morning."

"How slow these Englishmen are,"
thought Indiana, "and yet—"

"You naughty child," said
Mrs. Bunker, beaming on Indiana.  "Do
you know it's almost two o'clock!  Lord
Stafford is starving."

"And your mamma is 'worried to
death about you,'" said Lord Stafford.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha!  How am I getting on,
Mrs. Bunker?"

"Bravo, Lord Stafford, you are an
apt pupil."

"Blame Lord Canning," said Indiana.
"He does not like to hurry."

"No, indeed," added Lord Canning
in an injured tone.

"He would insist on going in and out
all the nooks along the shore."

"Yes, indeed," asserted Lord Canning.

"He persisted in exploring everything.
He has such a thirst for information—"

"Naturally," interrupted Lord Canning.

"And of course, when he took the
oars, I was powerless.  I'm thankful
we're home this early."

They all climbed slowly up to the camp.

"Won't you take my arm, Mrs. Stillwater?
Your daughter has forbidden
me to wear a hat, and has been throwing
water on me in the sun, as she wishes
me to acquire a certain reddish shade
of tan, which prevails here, and which
your two guides possess to an enviable
degree.  She was quite impervious to
all my scolding."

"Oh, Indiana always has her own
way, Lord Canning."

"Evidently.  I was almost obliged
to take the oars by force.  She wished
to row the entire morning, and I
thought that was entirely too much."

"Indiana will never give in that
she's tired.  When she was a child she
was the same.  She'd play until she
dropped asleep on the ground from
sheer exhaustion."

"Indeed," said Lord Canning.
"Then I was quite right.  But we
had a very exciting argument—it almost
caused a quarrel—and I rather
congratulated myself we were in such an
isolated spot.  I don't wish to convey
that Miss Stillwater actually lost her
temper—"

"Indiana," interrupted Mrs. Stillwater,
reprovingly.

"What do you young folks propose
to do this afternoon?" inquired Mrs. Bunker.

"Lord Canning is very anxious to
see the Notch," said Indiana.  "I
thought I'd drive you all over there."

"Your daughter has been describing
certain falls, Mrs. Stillwater, whose
tremendous power have worn a gorge
in the rock, and which supply water-power
for this entire region.  Most interesting—"

"Oh, a very picturesque spot."  said
Mrs. Bunker.  "Lord Stafford, I'm
sure you'll be charmed with it.  We
must start immediately after lunch—it's
a long drive."

"And if Miss Stillwater is to drive,
I'm afraid she will be taxing herself too
much, after rowing the greater part of
the morning."

"Oh, Indiana likes to be always on
the go," said Mrs. Stillwater.  "I'm
afraid she'll wear herself out some day."

"Nonsense, Mary," exclaimed Mrs. Bunker,
sharply, "she's as strong as a horse."

"Your granddaughter is athletic,"
said Lord Canning, "but of a very
slender build.  It is her nervous activity
that keeps her up, rather than strength.
On the whole, I prescribe rest this afternoon."

"Then, Indiana," said Mrs. Bunker
mildly, "you could show Lord Canning
that cunning little brook in the woods,
back there—"

"I dearly love little brooks in the
woods," said Lord Canning.

"Oh, I can show him that any time,"
said Indiana, "before breakfast."

"Shall we say to-morrow, before
breakfast—can I depend on that?"

"Yes.  And this afternoon we'll drive
to the High Falls," replied Indiana.

They were still at the table when
Haller presented himself.  "Be yer
goin' ter drive ter the Notch this
afternoon?  If ye be, it's nigh on ter three
o'clock.  Yer can't get back fore dark.
William's waitin' at the
landin'."  Mrs. Bunker rose precipitately.

"Get ready, Indiana!"

"I insist on Miss Stillwater resting
for ten minutes at least.  Don't you
agree with me, Mrs. Stillwater?"

"Yes, indeed, Lord Canning.  But
I can never force Indiana to lie down."

"Well, I will endeavor to see what I
can do."

"You will be accomplishing wonders
if you can persuade Indiana to do any
thing against her will."

"Come, Miss Stillwater.  There's a
hammock out on the balcony—waiting
for you."

"But I must get ready for the drive,
Lord Canning."

"Now let me have my way, Miss
Stillwater.  Ten minutes, more or less,
does not count.  I don't approve of
this rush after meals.  This is a wonderful
hammock—so comfortable—different
from most hammocks.  I tried it this
morning—simply a piece of canvas
stretched flat.  I shall take it in my
head to sleep out here one fine night.
Are you comfortable?  Now, Miss
Stillwater, you have been very good to
take this rest, and I am deeply indebted
to you.  I shall be still more so if you
will try to forget the fact that you are
going anywhere.  Simply make your
mind blank; now, don't raise your head
and look at me like that.  I mean
it—make your mind a blank.  Is it
impossible for you to keep your eyes shut,
Miss Stillwater?  Not even for ten
minutes—in truth, only eight now.  I have a
pocket Tennyson—I will read you a few
extracts; I always carry some literature
about me.  In travelling among so many
shifting scenes, a thought now and then
from a great mind goes largely toward
establishing one's equilibrium.  By the
way, I had this Tennyson with me this
morning.  I might have read to you on
the lake.  Still, we did not feel the
want of it, did we?  Time passed so
quickly—almost too quickly.  Dear me!
'In Memoriam' is my favorite poem—which
is yours, Miss Stillwater?"

"Mine," said Indiana, dreamily.
"Let me see—'Evangeline' is very beautiful."

"A charming pastoral—I suppose it
would be the favorite poem of a young
girl who knows nothing of life—"

Indiana sat up suddenly in the hammock.

"You make a great mistake, Lord
Canning.  I have travelled all over the
United States.  I have come in contact
with the world.  I have a very shrewd
idea of life—"

"Lie down, Miss Stillwater, please.
That was a very unhappy remark of
mine.  So you have a very shrewd idea
of life.  I'm obliged to take your word
for it—but, pardon me, you look very
young for a person who has such a
profound knowledge of the world.  Now,
don't talk back at me—remember, you
are resting.  Please shut your eyes—shut
them—it's only three minutes now.
I forbid you to open them again.
Returning to our original subject—'In
Memoriam' embodies a philosophy
which appeals to me.  We must read it
together.  I suppose you have not given
it especial study?"

"No."

"I think such a poem should be read
with someone else.  I am very familiar
with it.  I may be able to throw a light
on passages that may appear obscure to
you, and, perhaps, ultimately succeed
in imbuing you with my own love for it.
This—

   |  'Oh, yet we trust that somehow good,
   |  Will be the final goal of all—'"
   |

"Indiana," called Mrs. Bunker.

She sprung from the hammock.

"Dear me! it isn't—yes, it is—eleven
minutes and a half."  "Provoking,"
thought Lord Canning, as Indiana
disappeared.  "I don't seem to have any
time alone with her."

He very soon found himself in the
little naptha launch, 'Indiana,' with the
rest of the party.

"Isn't this jolly?" said Lord Stafford.
"We seem to be always on the go, here."

"Indeed, I'm not going to let you
stagnate," replied Mrs. Bunker.  "There's
a different place to see every day, and
when you've seen everything the
hunting will commence."

"We couldn't have a nicer day for a
drive," remarked Mrs. Stillwater.  "It
has rained all night, and there won't be
any dust."

"Oh, if a storm don't come up while
we're out," said Mrs. Bunker.  "You
never can tell what's behind these
mountains.  They're always brewing
something.  Don't you ever let Indiana
get you out in that sail-boat—while I
think of it, Lord Canning."

"No, Mrs. Bunker, I will not let her
get me out in that sail-boat.  There, I
put my foot down."

"Yes, you will," said Indiana,
propping her chin on her hand, "won't you?"

Lord Canning smiled back into her
eyes.  "Well, perhaps," he said.

"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunker.
"Indiana makes everyone do as she
wishes."

"Have you your Tennyson here,
Lord Canning?  I should like to look
through it."

He gave it to her, and then two heads
were soon bent, in a discussion, over the
book.  Lord Canning started, when they
reached their destination, and Haller
gave a spring to the dock.

"Already," closing the book, "this
has been most interesting, Miss
Stillwater.  You have a very clear and
fresh conception.  It's a great pleasure
to read with you."

"Oh, Indiana has always distinguished
herself in her studies," said
Mrs. Stillwater.

"I can believe that," said Lord Canning.

As the ponies sped along with their
swift, firm trot, Indiana explained to
him the different points of interest in
the country.

"Why, Indiana, you're taking the
old road—that's the longest," as she
made a sudden turn from the highway.

"And the prettiest, Grandma Chazy."

"Well, do as you like.  We'll never
get home."

"Thinking of home already, Mrs. Bunker.
We're just started.  This is
awfully jolly."

"Well, we'll see how jolly you'll
think it, Lord Stafford, when you're
kept till nearly nine for your dinner."

"Dear me, is it so serious as that?"

"We follow this all the way," said
Indiana, pointing to the narrow stream
on whose banks they were driving.

"Charming to hear, that delightful
gurgle.  I am so fond of the sound of
water!"

"A very narrow path," said Lord
Stafford, peering over the banks.
"One lurch to the right, and we're
over."

"The banks are propped with logs,"
explained Mrs. Bunker.  "That is done
every spring.  The force of the water
in winter breaks them down.  They're
none too safe now, I believe.  But
Indiana would take this old road!"

"I am so glad you did," murmured
Lord Canning.  "The continuous perspective
of this winding stream is charming."

As they drove on they were surprised
now and then by little green islands,
very small, sometimes merely clumps
of trees.

"Mysterious little islands," said
Lord Canning.  "So lonely, set here
and there in the stream, like little
green shrines, for those who wish to
pray."

"You have more imagination than
many would credit you with, Lord
Canning."

"I am not understood by many—I
would not care to be—"

"Do be careful, Indiana," said
Mrs. Stillwater, as they bounded over a frail
bridge built on logs.

"Have no fear, Mrs. Stillwater.
Your daughter is managing these ponies
admirably—" he added to Indiana—"with
those small hands.  May I relieve
you presently?"

"Thank you—I am not tired.  I
should fear to trust you.  One must
know the roads."

Gradually the low musical gurgle of
the stream deepened into a more
significant undertone.  Indiana made a
sudden cut to the left and turned out,
after crossing a bridge, on another
narrow road overlooking a deep ravine.
From its depths they still heard the
voice of the stream, growing into an
angry murmur.  After a while, on the
right, rose a high, craggy mountain-wall,
with sparse foliage growing in its
crannies.

Lord Stafford peered down into the
ravine.  "What a wicked looking place.
We're quite on the edge, Miss Stillwater.
Our lives are in your hands—and
that terrible mountain on the right."

"It shadows us like fate," said Lord
Canning.

"There is a mysterious voice warning
us from the ravine.  Remember, that
was once the low cooing murmur of a
placid stream."

"There's a lesson in that," said
Mrs. Bunker.  "Never trust a woman with
a soft cooing voice."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha!  Quite so, Mrs. Bunker."

"What a sudden change," remarked
Lord Canning, "from a fairy pastoral
to this mysterious wilderness.  Are
these sudden changes common to the
country?"

"Common to the country—and the
women," replied Indiana, laughing.

"Quite so, Miss Stillwater," said
Lord Stafford.  "You know Pope's
familiar couplet—

   |  Women like variegated tulips show,
   |  'Tis to their changes, half their charms they owe.'"
   |

"Do you echo that sentiment, Lord
Stafford," asked Mrs. Bunker, archly.

"Well, really, that's a difficult
question, Mrs. Bunker.  One is bored by
monotony, of course—but sometimes
these sudden changes can be deucedly
unpleasant—ha, ha, ha, ha!"

"There is the river," explained
Indiana, pointing to a black rushing current,
murmuring angrily below them.  They
watched it for a mile, sometimes writhing
slowly in its rocky bed, like a long
black snake, while the angry murmur
grew faint and then rose again as the
water rushed on with renewed power,
frothing madly over the holders and
rocks which barred its progress.
Suddenly before them rose the blue, distant
peak of one of the giant mountains.

"You wish to climb all the mountains?"
inquired Indiana.  "This will be
the first—it is the nearest.  I have
climbed it."  Lord Canning surveyed
it with interest.

"And will you climb it with me again?"

"I suppose so.  I climb it every year.
It's only four miles from our camp to
the trail."

"Always driving with this blue peak
before us," remarked Lord Canning,
after a while, "reminds me of the high
aims we set for ourselves, and which we
never seem to reach—the ideal of the
true artist which he despairs of ever
attaining—but, still, his eyes fixed on that
pale blue peak of perfection in the sky,
he forgets the bitter materialisms of life."

Indiana bent down and gazed at the
dark current.

"Do not look down, Miss Stillwater.
That is the river of Biting Reality.  Close
your ears to its threatening murmur—gaze
with me before us.  I am under
the delusion that I have discovered this
region.  Naturally, I wish to christen
everything myself.  I would make that
distant peak—"

"It is called—"

"Now, Miss Stillwater, I do not wish
to know—I will christen it—humor
me—I am one of those harmlessly insane
people with one delusion.  I name that
peak the Mount of Perfection.  You
said you would climb it with me.  It is
a very arduous ascent, and you are
young and 'frail.'"  He looked down
into the laughing eyes.  "But when two
climb together the stronger helps the
weaker.  All I ask—"

"Yes," said Indiana.

"Is that once in awhile you will smile
up at me—as we climb—in order that I
shall know you are not tired."

"I will smile," said Indiana.  "That
is not much to ask—"

"Ah, but will you smile brightly, so
that I may know you have not lost
courage; will you smile trustfully, so
that I may feel you have implicit faith
in any way I choose to lead—will you?
Ah, well, I won't say any more—"

"Listen," interrupted Indiana.  Far
away he heard a faint roar.  "The Falls."

"I will christen them later.  That
distant sound is very fascinating.  I
really cannot say yet what it conveys to
me.  But these falls are the culmination
of the river—they typify some crisis in
life—some great emotion into which all
others are submerged."

He leaned back, with folded arms,
watching the dense woods which had
replaced the craggy mountain-wall, and
listening to the growing roar of the
falls.  The air here was laden with
balsam.  Sometimes an icy breath from the
deep woods, into which no sun could
penetrate, fanned their faces.

"I have not yet named the lake on
which we spent this forenoon.  I hereby
christen it Lake Dangerous, as a
warning to those who might be deceived
by its apparent harmlessness.  All ye
unwary ones, take heed of sudden
storms, deceiving shallows, unfathomable
depths, and certain rocky places,
where supernatural powers are at work
to steal the precious secret of the soul!"

At this dramatic proclamation
Indiana gave vent to a ringing peal of
laughter.

"What's the joke, Indiana?" called
Mrs. Bunker.

"Oh, Lord Canning is talking the
greatest amount of nonsense."

"Your nephew isn't near as serious
as when I met him at Cannes," observed
Mrs. Bunker.  "Indiana brightens
everybody up."

"Quite so, Mrs. Bunker.  Now
hadn't you better use your arts to
brighten me up?"

"What have I been doing all this
time?  Wasting my sweetness, I see."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha! yes, Mrs. Bunker.
You had better commence all over
again."

As they drove on the sound of the
falls grew into a loud roar.  Miniature
rapids could be seen, now and then, as
the river emptied itself into small rocky
basins, then plunged onward.  Finally,
Indiana slackened pace at a rustic bridge,
where they alighted.  This bridge led
by short flights of steps to other
ascending bridges spanning the falls.

"I'll sit down by the water," said
Mrs. Stillwater.  "I don't like to cross
the falls.  They make me giddy."

They saw her comfortably installed
on a large boulder beneath a tree, near
a spot where the river wandered off in
a placid mood.  Then they climbed
the frail stairs leading to the different
bridges, pausing at each to gaze closer
at the fierce rush of the waters.

"What a wild, dark glen!" exclaimed
Lord Canning, looking about him, as
they reached the last bridge.  "Those
majestic pines stand like sentinels
watching the falls."  He gazed down
into the enormous gorge called The
Notch, into which the falls dashed, with
a deafening sound, sending up a
blinding shower of spray.  "How the water
seethes and boils and bubbles!  It is
like a gigantic cauldron.  Magnificent
for witches!  What poisons, what
love-potions and charms they could brew
down there!  Just the place for a conjuration!"

"You'd say that if you saw the place
by moonlight.  It looks simply unearthly."

"I should love to see it by
moonlight.  May I?"  He looked pleadingly
at Indiana.

"Well," she said, meditatively.

"Certainly," interrupted Mrs. Bunker.
"We'll have a moonlight picnic,
just as soon as there is a moon.
Probably my son will be here then."

"My handkerchief is quite wet,"
said Lord Stafford, wiping the spray
from his face.

"Take mine," offered Mrs. Bunker,
holding up a wet morsel.

"Oh, my dear lady, of what use
would that be?"

"I love the spray," remarked Indiana,
taking off her hat and leaning over.

"Indiana, stop that!  Lord Canning,
will you hold her?"

"Allow me," said Lord Canning,
putting his arms about her and bending
himself to gaze down into the falls.

Their tremendous rush and power
awoke a responsive chord in his own
breast.  He was conscious that what
had been first an impulse with him was
rapidly becoming a force, as wildly
impetuous in its way as that upon which
he was gazing.

In one part of the glen some logs had
been stacked under the trees.  Lord
Canning secured one.  "I wish to test
the force of the water," he said.  It took
all the strength he possessed to raise
the log high in the air and fling it down
into the falls.  There, it was lifted and
tossed by the eddying current, then
whirled onward, out of sight, as though
it had been a leaf.  "Tremendous power!
Miss Stillwater, you have gazed long
enough into the witches' cauldron."

They ascended slowly, behind Mrs. Bunker
and Lord Stafford.

"Let us rest a little while," said
Lord Canning.  "I should like to sit in
this mysterious glen and listen to the
falls as we hear them now—on the bridge
they were too deafening."

They sat down beneath one of the
immense pines, which looked down on
the falls.  Lord Canning closed his
eyes and leaned back on the deep
green moss.  It was a spot where the
sun seldom penetrated.  "I christen
these the Magic Falls," he said, after a
few moments, in which Indiana idly
plucked the moss.  "Listening to them
one loses all sense of past or future.
Here, just before we reach the falls—but
in view of them, within sound of
them, before we are carried away by
their impetuous rush, rendered dizzy
and blinded by their thunder and
spray—one can rest.  This is one of life's
lulls.  We all deserve to rest one day
in a spot like this, deeply shaded and
carpeted with moss, within sound of the
Magic Falls.  Here the world stops,
for once,—the world, with all its pros
and cons, its clear and valuable logic,
of which one grows very weary.  The
world itself must tire sometime of its
plentiful stock of common sense.  Then,
I christen this The World's Rest."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`In an Orchard of the Memory`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   In an Orchard of the Memory

.. vspace:: 2

When Lord Canning and
Indiana finally rejoined the
others, they were made the subject of
much reproval and interrogation.

"Blame me, Mrs. Bunker!" said
Lord Canning.  "Dinner is a fact
that I had forgotten."

"Apparently," answered Mrs. Bunker,
who looked wonderfully well
pleased considering her impatience.

"That is something new for you,
Thurston.  You always used to be
quite punctilious in the matter of meals."

"Indeed, Uncle Nelson!"

"Lord Canning has lost his memory
for the time being," explained Indiana.
"He is just a trifle demented—by his
own confession."

"Don't be alarmed, good people!"
said Lord Canning, with a far-away
look.  "I belong to the harmless
variety.  Miss Stillwater, who is my keeper
for the present, can testify to that."

"Oh yes, quite harmless!  He has
only one delusion.  He believes that
he has discovered the Adirondacks, and
he christens everything that he sees,
with a name of his own."

As they made their way to the wagon,
Lord Canning read an indescribable
expression on his uncle's face, which
amused him greatly.

"Thurston never went on like this
at the country houses we visited in
England," reflected Lord Stafford, on
the homeward drive.  "It seems that
people act differently abroad from their
manner at home."

"Don't take the old road home,
Indiana!" cried Mrs. Bunker as they
started.  "It's too long."

"The sun is sinking," observed Lord
Canning, "but all we know of it here
in the woods is this soft, golden haze.
This is the most beautiful time to
drive.  The others may be hungry, but
I think we have arranged it very well, to
suit ourselves.  How still the woods are
at sundown!  Look at their deep, rich
green in the golden light!  Do you
hear that musical murmur?  It's one
of those tiny brooks—we have just
passed it.  You are to show me one
to-morrow near the camp.  What time
before breakfast?  Eight?  Half-past
seven?  Say seven.  Now do not be late."

As the light gradually faded, they felt
a touch of frost in the air.  Its
exhilarating effect was heightened by the
rapid speed the ponies had taken on
the homeward road.

"Grandma Chazy wants me to take
the new road back.  It's a short-cut,"
whispered Indiana.

"I don't like short-cuts," murmured
Lord Canning, crossly.

"Indiana, you're not—well, what do
you think of that girl, Lord Stafford?"  As
Indiana took the forbidden road,
both she and Lord Canning laughing
with intense enjoyment.  "Just like
naughty children, aren't they, Lord
Stafford?"

"Ha, ha, ha, ha! yes, Mrs. Bunker,"
laughed Lord Stafford, edified beyond
description at hearing his serious
nephew, with a scientific bent, classed
in the category of naughty children.

"I hope cook won't mind," ventured
Mrs. Stillwater, with a worried expression.

"Ten to one she will, Mary.  But
don't get worried over that yet.  You
can have an hour's peace of mind
before she gives you notice."

"It's so hard to get another up here,
or I wouldn't care," added Mrs. Stillwater,
apologetically.  "You see I
should have to telegraph Mr. Stillwater—and
he would have all the bother of
getting us one, putting her on the
train, you see—and then, Lord Stafford,
she mightn't suit."

"Quite so, Mrs. Stillwater."

"Don't allow a small matter of cooks
to annoy you, Mrs. Stillwater," said
Lord Canning.  "In case of emergency
call on me.  There are certain
dishes which I pride myself upon.  If
cook has the bad taste to leave us, we
will camp out in earnest."

"You're very good, Lord Canning,"
replied Mrs. Stillwater, laughing.

"Have you ever tried these special
dishes, Lord Stafford?" inquired Mrs. Bunker.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha! no, Mrs. Bunker,
My nephew is developing accomplishments
which surprise me, to say the
least, Mrs. Bunker."

"Isn't this fascinating!  Look at
the soft, dim perspective of the stream
winding off there!  The little islands,
mysterious and fairy-like, in the
deepening light!  Those low clouds
floating in the glassy surface—the picture
fading imperceptibly, as we gaze!  That
gentle, continuous ripple with it all!
There is no poetry to equal this.  None
which could convey such a sense of
infinite peace and calm," enthused Lord
Canning.

"I love this old road," said Indiana.

"I, too, love this old road," echoed
Lord Canning, fervently.

When they finally emerged upon the
open country there was still a dull,
fiery streak in the western sky.  In this
fiery streak the evening star, rising
slowly above the dark-blue outline of
the mountains, glimmered faintly, a
pearl in a ruby setting.  As they drove
on in the growing night, lights gleamed
from scattered homesteads; the clear
cold air blew keenly in their faces.

"I'm thinking longingly of that
glorious fire in the hall," said Lord
Stafford, rubbing his hands.

"There'll be a heavy frost to-night,"
remarked Indiana.  "I can feel it.  You'll
see a great change in the foliage to-morrow."

"This is most exhilarating.  I have
been watching that long twilight in the
west.  How clear and bright it is there!
This is a purely Northern sky,"
exclaimed Lord Canning.

A week later they received word
from Mr. Stillwater that he was coming
for the remainder of the season.  Lord
Stafford was present when the letter
arrived, and notified his nephew in this
wise.

"Pa's coming!" he exclaimed, bursting
into Lord Canning's room.

"What!"

"Pa's coming!" he repeated, in a
feminine falsetto.

"What do you mean, Uncle Nelson?"
interrogated Lord Canning, in an
irritated voice.

"I'm repeating Miss Stillwater's
words, 'Pa's coming!'"

"Oh!"  Lord Canning gazed out of
his window at the lake, thinking.  "So
papa is coming.  Well, all the better!"

"He arrives to-morrow, the fifteenth.
They're arranging a deer-hunt for the
day after.  The guides are jubilant that
the real business of the season is to
commence.  They've been idling so
long.  Haven't you opened your letters
yet, Thurston?" noticing the pile of
letters on the table.

"I have read my mother's—here it
is.  She is well, thank God!"

"And you're going off without opening
the rest of your mail—part of it
arrived two days ago.  There might be
something important."

"I have an appointment with Miss
Stillwater.  That is the most important
thing at present."

"Why—what—where are you going?"

"Well, if you must know, Uncle
Nelson, I am invited to help her catch
pollywogs down here by the lake.  She
does not like to be kept waiting.  I'm
in a great hurry, Uncle Nelson.  Ha, ha,
ha, ha!"  He rushed out of the room.

Lord Stafford sank into a chair,
holding his sister's letter.

"Well, I don't know what to make
of Thurston.  It really looks as though
that little thing has bewitched him—that
little blonde thing—it's too absurd!—ha,
ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!—she's
clever, though!—she runs the
entire tribe of them—mother, father and
grandmother.  She can turn Thurston
round her little finger—em—en!
Perhaps I ought to devise some means of
getting him away from here.  I
promised his mother to look after him.  But
then the hunting is just about to
commence, and I've been looking forward
to it—so long—besides, what would
Mrs. Bunker say?"

Catching pollywogs was one of
Indiana's favorite recreations.  She kept
them in bottles for the pleasure of
seeing them turn into frogs.

.. _`Catching Pollywogs`:

.. figure:: images/img-215.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Catching Pollywogs

   Catching Pollywogs

"Look at this little one!  How
beautifully green and speckled!"  She
held the little squirming, slippery thing
fondly in her hand.

"I wish I were a pollywog!" said
Lord Canning.

This remark, coming from such a
source, appealed to Indiana's sense of
humor.  She laughed until the tears
rose to her eyes, while Lord Canning
surveyed her with a deeply injured
expression.

"It's most unkind of you to ridicule
my ambitions in this way, Miss Stillwater."

"And such lofty ambitions, too."

"They were—once, but they have
gradually diminished, until now I am
quite satisfied to be a pollywog—but
that one in your hand, you understand."

Indiana put it into the bottle, then
leaned back on the soft ground
clasping her hands behind her head.

"Tired—so soon?  But you weary
of most things like this, I have
perceived—a truly feminine trait."  He lit
a cigar.

It was one of those fair, bright
autumn days, when one could imagine it
was June instead of September, were it
not for the glorious splashes of color
that enlivened the lake.

"Do you notice," said Indiana,
gazing upward through the pines, "how
near the sky seems to us here?"

"Yes," said Lord Canning, "heaven
seems very near to me here"—he bent
down, looking into her eyes—"very
near, and sometimes very far—"

The sound of a mandolin floated to
them over the water.

"Glen!" cried Indiana, starting up.
Lord Canning rose also, self-contained
and somewhat pale.  They watched the
boat growing larger.  Burt was rowing
and Glen playing, "My Georgia
Lady-love."  Indiana stood up and waved her
handkerchief.

"Why does he play that now?" she
thought.  "He played it that day in
the orchard—when he told me—and I
was sorry for him.  It was such a
beautiful day!  He said there would
never be another—maybe there won't.

   |  "'Way down in dear old Georgia State,
   |  We parted—but she said she would wait—'"

sang Indiana, to the familiar strains.
"There were so many apple-blossoms,
and they were falling—falling over my
face, my neck, my hair.  The sky was
so blue when I looked up through the
blossoms—a different blue from this—

   |  'She slowly dropped her head,
   |  And then she softly said:
   |  'Mister Johnson, 'deed I loves you too.''

We cried and made ourselves miserable—I
wanted to kiss and comfort him, I
wanted to whisper what he wished to
hear—but something held me back.  I
was sorry for myself as well as for him.
I wanted to please everyone—his folks
and mine—but I couldn't.  I didn't
know then—I was waiting for this.  But
I'm sorry for Glen—so sorry!"  She saw
the boat through a mist of tears and the
mandolin sounded far, very far away, as
though Glen were still playing it in the
orchard of her memory, where the
blossoms fell, in a last rosy glow of the sun.

Lord Canning watched her, jealous
of the new expression on her face.  He
realized she was carried away by some
recollection in which Glen held a part.
"A boy-and-girl affair, probably," he
thought.  "There is always a boy-and-girl
affair, but it seldom amounts to
anything—very seldom."

Glen joyfully recognized Indiana
waving from the shore.  "Looks as
though she'd been standing watching
for me ever so long, but that's too much
to expect."  Burt rowed slowly in, while
Glen waved his cap, gaily.  Indiana
ran down to the dock to meet him,
slowly followed by Lord Canning.

"Well, Glen, here you are at last!"

"Glad to see me back, Indiana?" he
asked, holding her hand, while Lord
Canning stood discreetly in the background.

"Cause—Lord Canning, this is Glen
Masters, my old friend and
playmate—the Right Honourable Thurston Ralph
Canning, Viscount.  Right?"

"Perfectly."

"Glen's a character," continued
Indiana, "he hates cities."

"I do, sir," said Glen, rather
aggressively.  "But I'm not out of the swim.
I keep myself thoroughly posted upon
politics and literature of the world."

"He fought in the Spanish-American
war," said Indiana, putting her hand
proudly on his shoulder.

"And when it was over," laughed
Glen, "I came, like Cincinnatus, back
to the plow.  My father's been working
a farm this spring for his health, and
I've been helping him."

"Character, brain, muscle," observed
Lord Canning.  "That is the stuff
which has made the American nation
what it is to-day."  He extended his
hand to Glen, who grasped it without
enthusiasm.

"Mail for me, Indiana?"

"Yes, it's all up in your room."  He
took his coat and several other things
from the boat.

"Did you have a nice time?" asked Indiana.

"Oh, I'll tell you all about it later.
We had a fine time, lots of sport.  I
must go and shake hands with the folks
now, and read my mail.  See you later,
sir."  He swung his coat over his
shoulder and saluted them, military
fashion.

"Will you take me for a walk, Miss
Stillwater?"

Indiana looked hesitatingly up at the camp.

"Oh, perhaps you would prefer to
stay and talk with your old playmate.
Do as you feel inclined, Miss
Stillwater."  But he looked distinctively
aggrieved.

"Oh, no," said Indiana, carelessly.
"There is plenty of time for that.  He
will tell us his experiences around the
fire to-night.  Where would you like
to go?"

"Oh, let us simply follow one of
those little 'trails' through the woods—one
of those charming little trails, which
one loses, and finds again, like a broken
thread of thought, in the forest.  There
is always the murmur of some distant
stream, which one vaguely hopes to
reach—and sometimes a glimpse of blue
sky through the dark pines."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Might of the Falls`:

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   CHAPTER X.


.. class:: center medium bold

   The Might of the Falls

.. vspace:: 2

"She doesn't look a day over
thirty!  Remarkable!" said
Lord Stafford.

"She grasps the ideas I present to
her with astonishing quickness,"
answered his nephew, absently.  "A very
bright, eager mind.  She has innate
refinement and tact—for all her
unconventional freedom of manner, which is
only the outcome of her unconsciousness—and
that is, after all, her particular
charm, her unconsciousness.  I
catch a glimpse, now and then, of a
certain wildness of spirit.  I fear she
would beat her wings against—certain
fetters—unless—unless—well, it is
most interesting to watch the phases of
this young, tender nature—the product
of a new civilization."

"Thurston, who in the world are
you talking about?"

"Miss Stillwater, of course!"

"I thought so.  You were talking
about the young one and I was talking
about the old one.  It's very
irritating—you've done that before."

"When did I do it before?  And be
kind enough to explain who you mean
by 'the old one'?"

"Mrs. Bunker, of course."

"Oh, Mrs. Bunker!" repeated Lord
Canning, with a sarcastic intonation.
"I presume I have the same right to
talk about Miss Stillwater as you have
to talk—about Mrs. Bunker, Uncle Nelson!"

"No one's disputing your right, but
you're continually talking about her!"

"I wasn't aware I monopolized the
conversation to that degree."

"Well, you do.  You're continually
'studying' her and relating the results
of your observations.  I should think
you would know her by heart before
you left her."

"Unfortunately, so far, I have not
been allowed an opportunity for such
extended knowledge.  I'm rarely left
alone with her long enough for a proper
interchange of ideas.  There are always
so many plans and excursions on foot."

"By George, you're off with her all
the time, somewhere!"

"Not for long," said Lord Canning,
gloomily.  "Before one is aware, it's
lunch or dinner—meals are so
interfering!  What's that?"  Lord Stafford
peered out of the window.  They were
sitting in his room, which was flooded
with moonlight.

"It's that Masters fellow.  He's
playing his mandolin on the lake.
Fancy, at this hour!"

They smoked for awhile in silence,
listening.  It was long after twelve.

"We're going on a moonlight picnic
to the Falls to-morrow night."

"Are we?"

"So Mrs. Bunker told me.  We
drove there our first day here—don't
you remember?"

Lord Canning looked at his uncle in utter contempt.

"Do I remember?  What a delightful
day it was, that first day!  And
how many delightful days we have had
since!  Let me see.  We have been
here going on four weeks—is it possible?"

"That poor chap," with an
inclination of his head toward the lake,
"seems awfully cut up about Miss
Stillwater!"  Lord Stafford watched
his nephew closely.  "Why don't you
retire and leave him the field?  You
may as well, you know, first as last."

"I have no intention of doing it—first
or last!"

"The devil you haven't!"

"Uncle Nelson, I have made up my
mind to marry Miss Stillwater!"

"Good God!  Your mother!"

"My mother will be satisfied with
whatever is to result in my happiness.
This is the only thing in my life I have
ever intensely desired."

"Think it over—well over.  You
may change your mind."

"I have thought it over.  You
remember when I climbed Mt. Marsy
with Haller.  The night we spent on the
summit—I never closed my eyes.  In
the morning I watched the sun rise
over the forests, mountains and lakes.
Such a young, rejoicing world!  And I
stood above it all, sleepless, miserable,
old!  The questions I had asked all
night seemed vain and trivial.  I was
simply answered.  'Be happy!' said the
new-born world, bathed in dew and light."

"I promised your mother to look after
you," insisted Lord Stafford, weakly.

His nephew put up his hand in
laughing remonstrance, then grew
instantly grave.  "Do you remember
that log I threw in the Notch?  How it
was tossed and whirled onward, like a
leaf, by the might of the falls?  I am as
helpless in the force that has now taken
possession of me.  I have ceased to
reason.  I am going—wherever the
falls will send me."  He drank deeply
from the glass which stood at his elbow,
Lord Stafford regarding him helplessly.
They talked into the small hours of the morning.

Late in the afternoon Stillwater sat
in a sunny corner of the balcony,
reading the Herald.  One hand held
a nut, which a chipmunk was
speculatively watching in the shadow of
the big balsam tree.  Whenever he
ventured near, a rustle of the paper sent
him scampering back to the branches,
It was the first week of October and
they were having Indian summer.  The
evergreens on the borders of the lake
were a sombre background to the
gorgeous autumn color of the beech and
maple trees.  The mountains were
covered with an Oriental carpet of blended
browns, greens, and reds.  Mrs. Bunker
came out on the balcony, shading
her eyes to look on the lake.

"No sign of them yet."

"How long are your English friends
going to stay?"

Mrs. Bunker leaned carelessly against
the rustic railing.  "I'm sure I don't
know.  Lord Stafford is a devoted
sportsman, and his nephew is accumulating
information about the country.
They're both taken with the place, and—the
people in it," she smiled, in a
self-conscious way at her son-in-law.  He
looked at her closely.  She wore a
tailor-made gown, showing the fine lines of
her tall figure.  A scarlet cape dropped
carelessly off her shoulders.  Masses of
silvery hair, piled artistically on top of
her head, presented a striking contrast
to her dark, youthful eyes.

"Grandma Chazy!  You don't think
of marrying again?"

Mrs. Bunker laughed as though her
sense of humor had been irresistably
touched.  "I can't help guying Lord
Stafford.  He looks at me with those owl
eyes, and takes all my jokes for solemn
earnest."

"You will flirt, Grandma."

"I will, while there's a breath left in
my body—but I'm not the only
marriageable candidate in the house."

"Now, keep your match-making
hands off Indiana," he said, rising and
throwing down the paper.  "I won't
have it.  If she marries away from us,
it will break her mother's heart.  If I
thought you had any such schemes in
your head—"

"Wouldn't you like to see Indiana
Lady Canning?" she asked sweetly.

"No!" exclaimed Stillwater decidedly.
"My girl's a good, little Yankee and
she shan't emigrate."  He passed up
and down the balcony, talking excitedly.
"Yes, there's rich emigrants and poor
emigrants—and it's leaving your country,
bag and baggage.  England's got the
flower of our women already, and of
course, now the men are following suit."

"You talk like a backwood's man,"
said Mrs. Bunker, contemptuously.
"You've never been abroad."

"No.  You can do the globe-trotting
for the family.  Is there anything better
than this—in Europe?"  He gave a
comprehensive sweep of his head
toward the lake and the woods.  "Those
Englishmen are wild over the
place."  Mrs. Bunker folded her arms patiently,
while he continued his restless promenade.
"Hit me between the eyes with
the Jungfrau—what's the matter with
the Rockies?  All the snow I
want—there.  Where can you see another
Niagara or a Yellowstone Park—or a
stretch of balsam woods, like we have
here in the Adirondacks—or a—"

"My dear Horatio," interrupted Mrs. Bunker,
"your spread-eagleism is wasted
on me.  You can be sure of one
thing—when Indiana marries, we won't be
consulted.  She'll please herself—"

Mr. Stillwater brought his hand
down on the railing.  "She can have
anything the world affords—but I won't
buy her a title!"

Mrs. Bunker swept inside, laughing
good humoredly.  Seating herself by
the fire in the hall, she took up a
square of chamois upon which she was
embroidering the head of an Indian
chief, in full war-paint.

"The others not back yet?" asked
Glen, entering presently.  "They're
making a day of it."  He placed the
gun he carried in a corner of the hall
and threw himself into a chair by the
fire.  "Those Englishmen are having
the time of their lives.  Lord Canning
monopolizes Indiana, without considering
whether it's agreeable to her—"

"She's not the kind to sacrifice
herself, Glen," said Mrs. Bunker, smiling,
and setting colored stones among the
feathers on the forehead of the Indian chief.

Glen stared into the fire.

"I think they've been here quite
long enough."

"You're jealous," said Mrs. Bunker,
laughing.

He looked at her with kindled eyes.
"I am," he answered.  "I confess
it—horribly jealous!"

Again Mrs. Bunker laughed.

"You don't take me seriously, Mrs. Bunker."

"That's the trouble.  I'm trying to
laugh you out of this thing for your
own good."  She laid down her work
and looked at him sympathizingly.

"Yes, I know you mean all right by
me," he said with a sigh which was
almost a sob.  "But you needn't try to
laugh me out of it—you can't do that."

"My dear Glen, you're making it
very hard for your yourself!  Take my
advice for once."

"You can't laugh me out of it," he
repeated, burying his face in his hands.

"I'll talk to you just as if you were
my own—I've often wished I had a son.
I could have done so much for him—I
could have made something of a son of
mine.  You are a young fellow, with
every advantage that money can
give—handsome, and healthy, and clever.
The world's before you.  Rise up and
be a man!  Crush this thing under your
feet!  Don't consider your life is over
before it's begun—because you can't
have the first thing you happened to
wish for.  Love isn't the only thing in
life—especially for a man.  Look at the
sphere a man has for his activity!  I
sometimes feel like shaking some of you!"

"You don't understand—you don't
know—what a hold it has taken of me!"

"Nonsense!  Make an effort!  It's
in you.  You're a soldier—there are
other battles to be fought beside those
on the battlefield."

"I know.  And I'll fight—when I
must.  It hasn't come to that yet.  I
haven't given up hope.  Don't talk to
me as if I were a coward.  I went off
to Manila, and I loved her then.  I
didn't know when I wished her good-bye
but that it might be the last time I
should ever see her.  But it wasn't so
bad as this man walking in here, a
perfect stranger, and trying to steal her
under my very eyes—when I've known
her all my life.  And what does it
all mean?  Fine talk—a little extra
polish!"

"Lord Canning's a very interesting
man—a man who holds a high position
in England.  Indiana also has her
future to make.  You mustn't expect
because you've played with her as a
child—well, what is the use of talking
sense to you!"

"You mean well by me, Mrs. Bunker,
and I thank you for it—you may
be even right in what you say.  You've
travelled a great deal and met hosts of
people, and you're very experienced,
but you don't understand.  This has
been growing in me before I knew—growing
with my growth—and growing
after I knew—it's tearing a flower from
the roots!"  He rose abruptly and
leaned against the door.

"Come out," called Stillwater.  "What
are you sitting over the fire for?  The
sun feels fine to-day!  This is great
weather!  I'm half sorry that I didn't
join the rest and bring down a few
birds.  Here's a boat coming in now.
Lord Stafford's man with Haller."

"I don't see anything of Indiana
nowadays, since those Englishmen have
been here."

Mr. Stillwater looked at him significantly.
"Well, they'll be gone soon—then
we'll have her all to ourselves
again, my boy!"

"Mr. Stillwater, you—you don't
think Indiana cares for that man, do you?"

"No!" replied Mr. Stillwater, scornfully.

"He's a man of position," said Glen,
"and she's flattered—that's all."

"That's all," repeated Stillwater,
putting his feet up on the rustic railing.

"And another thing," Glen lowered
his voice, "I suppose Mrs. Bunker's
been getting in some of her fine
work."

Stillwater winked.  "You can
depend on that.  Hi, Flash!"  Flash ran
up, the bottles in the lunch-basket he
carried rattling loudly.  He bowed
obsequiously, out of breath, as he neared
the camp.  "What sport?"

"Magnificent, sir!  Partridges as
thick as rabbits!  Their lordships and
the young lady h'is a coming, sir."

"That'll do," as Flash stood bowing
and scraping.  "I can't stand the
crawling ways of these English
servants," remarked Stillwater.

"Neither can I," said Glen.

"Well, Mr. Flash, look where you're
going!" exclaimed Kitty, as Flash ran
precipitately against her.

"Miss Kitty!"—he bowed
exaggeratedly—"ten thousand pardons!"

"Give an account of yourself!  Where
are the folks?"

"They're h'on the lake.  We 'ad a
fine day's sport!  I've never seen 'is
lordship in good temper for twelve
consecutive hours before.  And their
h'appetites, bless 'em!"—Flash whirled
the basket in the air—"the h'eatables
'ave vanished and they've drained the
bottles!"

"That's good!" said Kitty, relieving
him of the basket.  Flash sank down
on a rustic bench with a sigh of fatigue.

"So the lordships are enjoying
themselves?"  Kitty seated herself beside
him and looked meditatively at her
shoes.  "A lucky day for them when
they fell in with the Stillwaters!  We
are celebrated for being magnificent
entertainers."

"Are you?" said Flash, with a stare
that comprehended every detail of
her trim personality.  Kitty was a
source of much entertainment to him,
besides being an unending study and a
continuous novelty.  Kitty, conscious
of the stare, rose with a toss of her
chestnut head.  "I'm going down to
the lake to watch for the folks."

"Stay 'ere, Miss Kitty!" pleaded
Flash.  "Don't compel me to mount
this 'ill again!"

"There's really no necessity that you
should accompany me, Mr. Flash."  She
deposited the basket within, and
strolled down through the trees.  Flash
surveyed her from where he was
sitting.  Her smooth, shining hair was
mounted by a modish black bow.  She
wore a little dainty, ruffled apron.

"Very neat!" he murmured, then
rose with an effort and caught up with
her.

"It's a big thing, as you say in
h'America, to be 'unting and 'unting for
miles and miles, and still be 'unting on
your own 'unting grounds."

"I should say so!  Mr. Stillwater
bought up all that land you're talking
about, years ago.  It's worth ten times
more now than what he paid for it.  It's
for that model farm."

"H'if all you've been telling me h'is
true, I'm glad.  I'm an h'expert on
farming.  I 'ave never seen h'anything
like you describe, h'even in Devonshire."

"The farm's only a fad of Mr. Stillwater's.
You should see our home in Indiana!"

"I say, Kitty," he looked confidentially
in her face, "'ow much is 'e
estimated at?  Say two 'undred thousand pounds?"

Kitty laughed contemptuously.

"Three?  Five?"

"Mr. Flash, you're quite a nice
young man, but you're very unexperienced.
A man who knows how rich
he is, is not a rich man in America.
He's only well off.  Mr. Stillwater has
reached that stage where money is
never even mentioned!"

"H'is it possible!" exclaimed Flash.

"I think I see the folks.  So in
future, Mr. Flash, when they say a
man's rich in America you will
understand he is not limited to figures."

William was rowing them all in.
They were talking and laughing in the
highest spirits.  Mrs. Bunker came
down through the trees in her scarlet
cape, still holding her work.

"A most enjoyable day's sport,
Mrs. Bunker," said Lord Stafford.

"You did bravely to-day, Miss Stillwater,"
praised Lord Canning.

"Not *Still*water," said Indiana, in a
drawling voice.  "Still*water*."

"I'm afraid I shall never conquer
your proper names.  As for your
wonderful charms—"

"I'll give you a lesson," interrupted
Indiana.  "Suppose you saw a chubby
little partridge over there in the scrub
fern and wanted to bag him—what
would you say?"

Lord Canning took his gun and levelled
it in the direction indicated.

"I should say, I'm afraid the little
fellow's out of gunshot, but I'll try."

"That's not American—to be afraid!"

"No, you'd guess."

"I—guess—when there's game to
bring down!  Never!"  She seized
her gun and levelled it at him.  "I'd
just bag him!  Aren't you afraid?"

"No," looking at her meaningly,
"ready and eager to be sacrificed!"

Indiana dropped her gun, laughing
rather coquettishly.

"Good hunting, Indiana?" asked
Mrs. Bunker.

"Good hunting, Grandma Chazy,"
answered Indiana, with a comprehensive
look at Lord Stafford.  "You see
we know our Kipling, Lord Canning."

"I've ordered tea in the boat-house,"
said Mrs. Bunker.

"I'm glad you did.  It would be a
pity to leave the lake to-day."

Up in the cozy little room of the
boat-house the logs were crackling.
Gay sporting prints adorned the green
walls.

"Will you have this chair, Miss
Stillwater?  Right this time?  So glad!
It was quite an effort, I assure
you."  He thought as he drew her chair near
the fire—"Perhaps I shall not be obliged
to make the effort long.  What an endless
source of pleasure it will be to call
her—Indiana!"

"I suppose you're all dying for a cup
of tea," said Mrs. Bunker, seating herself
at the tea-table, while Lord Stafford
sank into an arm-chair near the fire,
warming his hands at the blaze.

"Where are the rest?" inquired Indiana.

"Your father and mother are having
their tea together on the balcony.
They're perfectly happy.  I believe,
Glen's there too."

"The devotion of your father and
mother is very touching to me,"
remarked Lord Canning.

"They've always been like that—ever
since I can remember," said Indiana.

"It's very beautiful to see, in these
days of marital indifference and
incompatibility."

"They'll be lovers to the end of the
chapter," declared Mrs. Bunker.  "And
there's Lord Stafford enjoying his
single blessedness.  Think what you're
missing!"

"Ha, ha, ha!  Yes, Mrs. Bunker, but
at present this delightful cup of tea is a
great consolation."

"What have you found most interesting
in the States, Lord Canning?"
asked Mrs. Bunker.

"Well, I should say—" he hesitated,
holding his cup and gazing
contemplatively out at the lake.

"Don't be afraid to commit
yourself," added Mrs. Bunker, quickly.
"You English hate to make a positive
assertion."

"Quite so, Mrs. Bunker," returned
Lord Canning amusedly.  "We think
more slowly than you do—and you have
asked me a very difficult question."

"I'll answer it for you," volunteered
Indiana.  "Your uncle has come to
America to shoot things, and you for
scientific purposes—ostensibly.  But
you spend night after night over your
brandy and soda, discussing the
American woman."

"Remarkable!" ejaculated Lord
Stafford, adjusting his monocle and
staring at Indiana.

"How did you find us out, Miss
Stillwater?" Lord Canning laughed heartily.

Lord Stafford drew his chair closer
to the tea-table.

"Are you not a very remarkable
woman, Mrs. Bunker, even in this
country of remarkable women?"

"You'll find women like me all over
the States.  You see we don't become
old before our time—to make way for
the girls.  I had my daughter to rear,
and I did it as well as I knew how.
Then I superintended my granddaughter's
training.  Now she's a woman,
I'm commencing all over again on my
account."  She laughed heartily at the
serious countenance with which Lord
Stafford heard her explanation.

"Remarkable, Lord Stafford, or
bewildering—which?"  She smiled
archly into his face.

"Charming, this time, charming, I
assure you!"

"The lake looks so blue and enticing
from here!  Shall we drink our
second cup on the balcony, Miss Stillwater?"

Indiana assenting, Lord Canning
brought her empty cup to Mrs. Bunker.
"Make yourself comfortable in
the hammock, Miss Stillwater.  I will
be out directly, with a fresh supply."

"Don't spill it, Lord Canning!
Really your hand is very steady—a
good sign!  Another—with me, Lord Stafford?"

"I will take another with you, Mrs. Bunker."

He returned the cup and leaned
comfortably back in his chair, enjoying
the cosiness of his surroundings—the
proximity of the fire, the blue lake
shining in the distance, and the
domestic picture afforded by Mrs. Bunker at
the tea-table.

"How is it that a good catch like you
has escaped the matrimonial anglers so
long?" she asked confidentially, as she
sipped her tea.

Lord Stafford stirred his cup in
amused embarrassment, quite at a loss
for an answer.

"Now, why don't you marry?" continued
Mrs. Bunker.

"Er—er—I'm rather sensitive about
being asked such personal questions,"
gasped Lord Stafford.  "My own
sister never asked me that!"  He
resumed a reminiscent expression.  "She
asked me if I should marry, but never
why—never why!"

"You'll tell me, won't you?" urged
Mrs. Bunker, sweetly.

"Oh, by George, I declare I've
never even asked myself that question!"

"Well, I should be quick!  Start an
investigation committee and find out
something about yourself.  You don't
know how long you are going to live."

"Mrs. Bunker, one never knows
what you are going to say next."

"The lake has a ruby necklace,"
remarked Lord Canning, looking up
from his note-book, in which he had
been writing while Indiana rested in
the hammock.  The deep red coloring
of the bank mirrored along the shore
as far as one could see.  "Ah, there is
Mr. Masters going out in a canoe!"  He
watched Glen's well-knit figure as
he paddled with swift, unerring strokes,
clearing a perfectly straight line down
the centre of the lake.  "A very fine
specimen of young manhood," he
thought.

Later there was a tinge of rose on
the mountains, gradually fading into
purple.  Glen remained on the lake
watching the sunset.  His solitary
canoe rested in a spot commanding a
view of White Face Mountain—that
which Lord Canning had called the
Mount of Perfection.  Its giant shadow
lay on the lake, with the purple glow on
its towering peak.  He was discouraged
and depressed.  The transient
purple glow on the water reflected
itself in his spirit for the moment.  Then
it faded, leaving the dark shadow of the
mountain on the lake and a chill in the
air.  He paddled slowly homeward.
He had isolated himself from the rest
lately and spent his time restlessly
roaming the woods with his gun, which
lay for the most part neglected beside
him, while he asked constantly of a
blue patch in the pines why he should
be robbed of his birthright of
happiness.  The pines, bending and sighing
over him, whispered always the same
consolation, as a sad nun, weeping with
the stricken, will speak the lesson of
submission she has learned, and,
knowing nothing else, repeat it many times
again.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A Moonlight Picnic`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A Moonlight Picnic.

.. vspace:: 2

They were all jubilant during
dinner at the prospect of the
moonlight picnic.  When they emerged
'The Indiana' waited at the dock,
illuminated with colored lanterns.  The
camp-fire burned brightly as usual.
Haller sat on the steps with a lantern,
ready to light them down to the lake.

"Just eight," said Stillwater, looking
at his watch.

"No hurry," assured Mrs. Bunker.
"This is to be an all-night affair."

Haller chuckled.

"Dissipation in the woods—fancy!"
remarked Lord Stafford.

The electric lights on the balcony
were arranged to give only a subdued
glow.  Glen played his mandolin softly
while coffee was served, his eyes fixed
on Lord Canning and Indiana, who
were talking in a very gay, lively strain.

"The Pacific coast is a great
hunting ground, Lord Stafford," began
Stillwater.  "I've heard stories about
bands of elk that once roamed the San
Joaquin Valley in California, living on
plains same as the buffaloes—miles
away from anything like cover."

"Remarkable!" said Lord Stafford,
while Haller listened with
open-mouthed surprise.

"You see there was no demand for
them before the discovery of gold, but
when the miners came they wanted
meat.  And then there were travelling
bands of bloodthirsty explorers.  They
and the miners murdered everything in
sight—the white man generally does.
I was told that the great novelist
Dumas landed there in 1849, and one of
his first performances was to kill an elk
in Sacramento Valley."

"Indeed, an interesting fact!  These
vast herds of elk retreated—where?"

"To the Great Red Woods."

"Haller," called Glen, "I'd like to
climb White Face to-morrow; it's such
clear weather."

"'Tis clear," replied Haller.  "Liable
to have snow on White Face."

"Are you going to put me in your
book?" asked Indiana.  "Am I the
type of American woman you will describe?"

"I am not going to put you in my
book," answered Lord Canning.  "I
am going to put you—well, never
mind.  You are not the type—you are
a type."

"That's so," assented Indiana.
"The states are too large for any one
distinctive type of woman.  We all
have that 'must-be-up-and-doing' kind
of spirit.  You call it 'nervous
activity.'  The Southern girl is neutrally
active; the Eastern girl aggressively
active."

"The Western girl—" suggested
Lord Canning.

"Judge for yourself."  She stood
before him, her hands clasped behind
her.  "Physically light weight, but
strong.  I can climb a tree, vault a
fence, ride a horse bareback, straddle
and side-saddle.  Mentally
light-weight, but bright, with an enormous
faculty for devouring literature, good,
bad and indifferent.  I love good music,
and the impressionist school of
painting.  Character undeveloped;
politically, an expansionist.  I believe in the
imperialistic policy, in annexation—stretching
out and grabbing everything
I can get."

"Bravo!  Charming!" exclaimed
Lord Canning, clapping his hands.
"You are most interesting."

"As a study—or—or—a woman."

"Both," said Lord Canning.  "When
I cease to study your imperfections, I
commence to love them."  He bent
over her, looking into her eyes.  Glen
struck a discord on the mandolin.

"I suggest that we start," interrupted
Mrs. Bunker.

Lord Canning stood seriously gazing
into the fire in the hall, while the ladies
donned their wraps.  His face
brightened when he saw Indiana on the little
balcony behind the Persian rug.  She
had put on a long white circular.  The
hood, edged with swansdown, made a
pretty frame for her little flushed face.
Her eyes, with their dilating pupils,
looked dark under the yellow hair.

"Come down, little snow maiden!
Or, are you afraid you will melt away in
the heat of the fire?"

He met her at the foot of the stairs,
and took her hand in a tender pressure.
Mrs. Bunker coughed slightly behind
them, and Indiana ran quickly out on
the balcony, leaving Lord Canning
under the amused fire of Mrs. Bunker's
bright eyes.  She shook her finger at
him, and would have followed Indiana,
but Lord Canning did not wish to be
taken so lightly.

"Mrs. Bunker," he said in a low,
intense voice, grasping the balustrade,
"one moment, if you please.  It may
not be considered anything in America
when a man of my age is seen holding
the hand of such a very young girl, but,
I am not a believer in light
sentiment—flirting, perhaps, would be the term.
I love your granddaughter!"

"It's easy enough to see that,"
laughed Mrs. Bunker.  It was always
amusing to her when people took
themselves so seriously.  "You have
my good wishes.  I have always thought
very highly of you."

She held out her hand, which he
pressed gratefully in his.  "Thank
you, Mrs. Bunker.  Have you any idea
if—if she cares for me?"

"The little minx is too smart for
me," answered Mrs. Bunker.

"She is so non-committal," said
Lord Canning.  "I know she esteems
me and all that; at times, I have fancied
that I even interest her.  But as to—"
he gazed gloomily into the fire.  "Well,
it will be necessary for me to clinch
things very soon, time is passing with
dangerous rapidity—but still passing.
Mrs. Bunker, when I met you in
Cannes over a year ago, I did not know
what a great influence you were fated
to throw on my life.  If she loves me,
I will never forget that it is through you—"

"Don't thank me—yet," said Mrs. Bunker,
shrewdly.  "Wait until you're
married a year."

"Oh, I have no fears on that score,"
asserted Lord Canning, with a very
self-confident air.

"You don't know Indiana.  If you
attempted to cross her, she'd tear your
hair out!"

"Goodness gracious!" exclaimed
Lord Canning, laughing heartily.
"Don't think you can frighten me by
a little thing like that!"

"If I thought so," reflected Mrs. Bunker,
"I wouldn't have told you, no
matter how true it might be.  Oh,
nothing would stop you now, Lord
Canning!"

"Nothing!  I have lived a very
matter-of-fact life—never very miserable,
or the other extreme.  I have had
great satisfaction in my work.  Now
it's time I snatched a little happiness."

"Indeed it is," said Mrs. Bunker, in
a soothing voice.  Men, to her, were
like big children—to be humored.

They had moved gradually toward
the fire.  "These logs," continued Lord
Canning, "are a magnet towards which
my eyes have been drawn every night
since I came.  If you knew what I see
in them—such a sweet domestic
picture, a vision of true happiness!"

"Well, don't depend too much on
Indiana's domesticity," said Mrs. Bunker.

"We generally gauge a daughter by
her mother, in England," stated Lord
Canning.

"Well, it's different over here.  The
young generation are so precocious—so
far ahead of the mothers."

"I do not call it an advance.  The
daughters would do well to copy their
mothers in their allegiance to the
home.  I hope, if Indiana does me
the honor to consent—"

"Well, you can have that out with
her.  She may be a model of domesticity,
but you never know how a girl's
going to develop.  You can't be sure
of everything"—she laughed
mockingly—"that's the risk of marriage."

"I am staking everything on this one
card—marriage," said Lord Canning.

"Why will you men play so high?"
queried Mrs. Bunker, laughing again,
as she swept out on the balcony.

"Why?" echoed Lord Canning,
looking into the fire.  His dark eyes
smiled at what he saw there—the
picture he had described in the glowing
logs, had been his answer.  "Yes, it is
time I snatched a little happiness—how
little, after all!  The rest of my natural
life seems short enough to love her in."

"We're going, Lord Canning," called
Mrs. Bunker.

He hurried out, offering his arm to
Indiana, as the procession followed
Haller down to the boat-house.  The
lake by moonlight was a scene of such
mysterious beauty that no one felt
inclined to talk.  Lord Canning was
somewhat disposed to question the
reality of his surroundings.  He was
drifting down a silvery sea of
enchantment, Indiana's white-robed form at
his side.  Oblivious of criticism, he
scarcely took his eyes from her young
face, etherealized in the moonlight.
Glen watched his loverlike attitude,
with growing anger.  To the various
camps along the lake, the illuminated
launch, passing with the faint strains of
the mandolin, presented quite a fairy-like
spectacle.  Later, driving through
the country, they were all talkative and
lively, regaling the night with choruses,
Glen playing and singing with a gayety
he was far from feeling.  Stillwater,
who drove, complied, unhesitatingly, to
a request for the old road.  Lord
Canning sat silent and spellbound the
entire way, watching the stream winding
before him—touched with tremulous
waves of silver; the little islands
dreaming in a moonlit haze.

William had been sent over to prepare,
early in the afternoon.  When the
party arrived, the falls were illuminated
by colored lanterns, decorating the
rustic bridges, and hanging from the trees.
They added a fantastic beauty to the
natural wildness of the spot.

"I'm sure I am dreaming," said
Lord Canning, as he stood alone with
Indiana on one of the rustic bridges,
listening to the roar of the waters and
watching the many-colored lights
trembling on the moonlit falls.  "Studying
late into the night, I fell asleep in my
library at home.  Jennings will come
in soon and poke the fire, and I shall
awake—in England!"

At twelve they sat down to a large
supper-table.  Kitty, Flash, and the two
guides were in attendance.  Lord
Canning related some interesting
adventures, and Stillwater taxed his memory
for humorous experiences, which met
with the hearty appreciation of his
guests, who were very susceptible to
the dry wit of the American.  Glen
complied whenever he was asked to
sing, between the stories, but otherwise
he was distinctly out of tune with the
prevailing high spirits.  He had been
wrought up to the highest pitch of
jealousy, by the absence of Lord Canning
and Indiana from the rest, before
supper.  The entire evening appealed to
him more as a nightmare than a festivity.

"Friends," began Stillwater, in
response to a toast from Lord Canning,
"I'm in the best of health and spirits.
My family are all around me"—he
rested his hand on his wife's head—"I
hope to keep them so, for many a long
day.  We can't reckon on the future,
but to-night I'm a happy man!"  He
kissed his wife, whose eyes had filled
with a quick rush of tears.

Indiana jumped up and threw herself
upon his breast, with a very sure
premonition that she would soon leave him.

"Our host again!" proposed Lord
Stafford.

His nephew drank the toast, feeling
a sense of guilt that he was destined so
shortly to ruffle the calm sea of
Stillwater's domestic horizon.

"My distinguished guests have announced
their intention of returning to
England"—holding Indiana against his
breast.  "May they find their dear
ones well and happy, and Godspeed to
them!"

"Godspeed to them!" echoed Glen.
"And a quick leave-taking!" he thought
grimly.

Mrs. Bunker's happy philosophy was
colored for the moment with a tinge of
pessimism.  "What a blind game it
is," she whispered to Lord Canning.
"He may be wishing 'Godspeed' to
the baby I laid in his arms.  Look at
Indiana, she hasn't raised her head."

"Well, Indiana," said Stillwater,
"aren't you going to drink 'Godspeed'
to them?"  He held the glass
to her lips, raising her head from his
breast.  Their eyes were all upon
her,—Lord Canning's tenderly anxious, his
uncle's laughing, Mrs. Bunker's
significant, and Glen's suspicious and
jealous.

"Godspeed to them!" she repeated,
gaily raising her glass.

When they finally arose from supper,
Glen immediately disappeared.  "I
must get away from that awful white
light," he thought, walking restlessly
through the dark woods.  "It's beating
on my brain and driving me mad."
His soul foreboded very truly that
Indiana was lost to him.  The soul is our
Cassandra.  It mourns and prophecies,
while the heart is forever holding a
carnival.  A young girl decking herself
with flowers for a fete.  There is a
shrouded form behind her in the
mirror.  It whispers, "Those flowers are
blossoms of death.  The fete for which
you are robing, is a funeral."  But,
unhearing, unseeing, thinking of lovers
and dancing, she decks herself in the
mirror, a song on her lips.

Scarcely knowing where his feet
were leading him, he found himself
on the bridge directly over the falls.
"She never notices me—I don't exist
for her!"  He looked down into the
falls.  "Living's only a fever after
all—a mad fever of longing and jealousy.
I'd gladly end it, down there—if it
wasn't for the folks.  Ambition! glory!
I'd fling them all to the winds for the
choice of pressing her little yellow
head to my heart, just once, to still
this horrible throbbing!  If I had been
brought home wounded and dying,
she'd have sobbed beside me, and I'd
have comforted her in my weak arms.
Then she might have said, 'I love you,
Glen dear!' just to make me happy—before
the end.  I would have fallen
peacefully asleep then, blessing her.
A happy death, to have died for my
country, holding her to my breast, as
my life bled away.  Better than
this—this fever called 'living'."

A hand was laid on his shoulder.
"We're going home, my boy."

"Oh, I'm sorry"—he pressed his
hand to his forehead—"I'm sorry that
you were obliged to look for me."

Stillwater scrutinized Glen's set,
white face.  "The Englishmen are
going.  Things will come your way—soon."

"They'll never come my way," sighed
Glen, "except, perhaps, when I've
ceased to care."

"Nonsense!"

"It seems to me that nothing is
worth what I've been suffering—not
even Indiana."

"She isn't," assured Stillwater,
unhesitatingly, delighted at this conclusion.
"Turn over a new leaf.  Show her
you're indifferent.  She'll think all the
more of you."

Lord Stafford was patting the ponies,
while Haller arranged the harness.

"If you'll be kind enough to jump
in, Lord Stafford," cried Mrs. Bunker,
"we may reach home in time for
breakfast!  Come now, Haller, you've
been fumbling long enough with that
harness!"

Haller grinned at Lord Stafford.
"That woman's full of life," he
remarked, "I admire her."

"The devil you do!" exclaimed Lord
Stafford.

As they started they all sung "On
the Banks of the Wabash."

The moon was fading when they
embarked on 'The Indiana.'

"The lake presents an unearthly
appearance in this silver twilight,"
remarked Lord Canning.  "It is
vanishing quickly.  There's still a parting
gleam touching the dark pines here
and there—lingering like the last caress
of a dying hand.  Everything is
becoming vague.  The world is fading
away from us.  How fascinating—these
last few moments before the dawn.
Ah, it is breaking!  That suggestion
of dark shore—this pale light on the
black lake.  Why, we are on the River
Styx.  Haller doesn't look unlike
Charon.  I can see you dimly, Miss
Stillwater—a little ghost in your white
cloak.  We are all ghosts."  He
lowered his voice.  "I am positive that
Mr. Masters sitting there, with his
mandolin, could not present a more tragic
figure if his eternal punishment were to
play for the amusement of all the
shades crossing to Hades!"

Indiana laughed.  Glen bit his lips
savagely.  It sounded to him like the
mocking laugh he had heard in his
dreams, on the farm in the West, that
miserable week when he had exiled
himself.

The morning mists floated above
them, growing denser.  The clouds
reflecting in the glassy lake, exposed
only a fringe of red foliage.  Gradually
the mists were tinged with a faint
opaline glow, deepening gradually.
The sun rose as they neared Camp
Indiana.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Leading to the Altar`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   Leading to the Altar.

.. vspace:: 2

Glen did not renounce his
original intention of climbing White
Face mountains.  He slept for two
hours, breakfasted, and started for
White Face trail at ten o'clock.  There
was no one stirring at the camp.
When he returned it was four in the
afternoon.  He found Indiana lying in
the hammock on the balcony, Lord
Canning, seated beside her, reading
poetry aloud.

Glen threw himself into a chair.
"I'm pretty well used up!"

"I should think so," said Indiana,
"climbing White Face after being up
all night!  I'll order some tea for you,
and then you'd better go to bed."

She sprang from the hammock and
disappeared, returning again in a moment.

"Thank you, Indiana.  I'm glad I
went.  It was magnificent!  The view
as clear as possible, and snow on the
summit!"

"I thought we might see you and
Haller from the lake, but I couldn't
get Lord Canning away from the camp
to-day.  He was so lazy."

Lord Canning smiled.  He had his
own reasons for staying home, having
resolved not to let the day pass without
speaking to his host of the subject of
Indiana.  So far there had been no
opportunity.  The family did not appear
until lunch-time, and ever since,
Stillwater had been closeted, writing
business letters.

Though excessively fatigued, Glen
felt immeasurably better for climbing
White Face.  The physical tax had
cleared his brain.  He had been
exhilarated by the cold, rare air on the
summit.  He drank his tea with a
pleasurable sense of lassitude, and, his
eyes fixed on Indiana swinging in the
hammock, replied rather absently to
Lord Canning's questions regarding
the ascent.

Lord Canning rose, closing his Tennyson.
"I think I'll stroll down to the
lake, Miss Stillwater, if you don't
mind."  He smiled at Glen, with a feeling of
generosity.

Indiana looked after him thoughtfully
as he strolled down through the
trees.

"He's a thorough gentleman—so
unobtrusive.  He never asks prying
questions—and he's never in the way."

"Too slow for me," replied Glen,
watching her narrowly.  "But I suppose
you must have someone to flirt with."

Indiana swung slowly.  "Perhaps—I'm
in earnest—this time!"

Glen rose and grasped her wrist
tightly.  "Don't say that, Indy!
While you're single I shall never give
up hope.  Now, what's in the way?
I'm not your inferior in education.
Do you know any handsomer fellow
than I?"—with a grim affectation of
humor.  "If it's for money—I have all
you'll ever want."

"I must marry a man of the world.
I want to live in the world.  We're
both undeveloped—I'm not a woman
yet, nor you a man."

"I don't consider I'm not a man,"
said Glen scornfully, "until I have
conquered no end of women, and have
their broken hearts for trophies, like an
Indian with a string of scalps.  I love
one woman, and if she won't have me—well,
I'll not give up until I see her
tied pretty tightly to another man."

"I'm not worth it, Glen."  She
caught his arm, gazing earnestly up
into his face, "I'm not worth all your
devotion."

"I know you have faults enough,
but, God help me, I love you all the
better for them."

"Everybody loves my faults," said
Indiana, impatiently.  "That's the
trouble with me.  If I could only find
some one who would hate them and
try to cure them."

"I couldn't be harsh to you, Indy.
If you killed me, I'd die blessing you.
You nearly did for me once—"

"What!"

"Oh, it wasn't your fault—you were
too young to know better."

Indiana sprang from the hammock.
"Glen, what wasn't my fault?" she
demanded, fiercely.  "What did I do?
You shall tell me!"

"All right.  But don't get in a
temper.  I swore I'd never throw it up to you."

"Don't tease me, Glen," said Indiana,
imploringly, "tell me—quickly."

Glen pushed his hair back from his
right temple.  "Do you see that?"

"Yes," uttered Indiana, in a frightened
voice, "a deep, white scar."

"You did that."  She recoiled,
looking at it in horror.  "You threw
a pair of scissors at me—in one of your
tantrums."

"Oh, no, no, no!"

"You were too young to remember,
and they took you away so that the
sight of the blood shouldn't frighten
you."

"Oh, Glen!" cried Indiana, "how
could I?  And you're always so
good—you never even hated me for it.
Oh, Glen!"  She took his head in her
hands and kissed the scar impulsively.
"Forgive me—forgive me!"

"Indiana, is there a chance for me?"

"No."

"You're not going to marry that
Englishman?" he said, fiercely.

"He hasn't asked me."

"Would you?"

"I don't know, Glen.  Promise me
you won't say anything to him about
that," pointing to the scar.

"I've never thought of it myself,"
said Glen, sadly, "since then.  I'm
sorry I told you if—"

"Thank you for telling me.  I'm glad
I know.  It hurts me, though—right
here."  She put her hand to her heart.

"Indiana!"

"Now I'm blue, but I'll get over it.
To think I could hurt you, or anybody,
like that."

"Oh, Indy, don't think about it.
This scar is healed—long ago.  You've
hurt me here, far worse than that."  He
took her hand and pressed it to his
heart.  "There's a wound here it'll take
many a long day to heal."

"Oh, Glen!  Oh, Glen!" she moaned,
piteously, trying to wrest her hand
away.  But he held it tightly over his
heart.

"I don't know what you want—I
don't believe you know yourself—I
don't believe you realize what you're
doing—you're too young to know.
You're throwing away a rare, pure
love, Indiana, as though it were a
soiled ribbon.  I'm not a man of the
world, but I know what that means in
life—you don't.  It's all that counts in
the long run.  I don't say another man
couldn't love you, but no one will ever
love you better—remember that, won't
you?  And that mine is not a love
which has sprung up suddenly—it has
taken deep roots in my life."

"It's horrible to think I could hurt
anyone like that," repeated Indiana,
mechanically, looking at the scar on
his forehead.

"That's the least.  Think of the
wound here," he repeated.  "You
could heal it, Indiana."  He opened
his arms.  He might have won her by
his very insistence, if it were not that
the idea of another—a different life
from what she had known—had shed
its glamour upon her, the glamour of
the new and strange.  She would not
trust herself to look at his dark,
quivering face, but turned away and mounted
the stairs, slowly, to her room, seeing
him very clearly as she went, standing
with his arms extended.

Later, Mrs. Stillwater found Glen
sitting alone on the balcony, looking
vacantly on the lake.  He did not
notice her, until she went up to him,
putting her arm about his neck.

"What's the matter, Glen?"

"Indy won't have me—"

"You've asked her, then?"

Glen nodded.

"I'm so sorry, so sorry."  She
smoothed his hair gently.  "I've always
hoped it would be—some day."

"I haven't given—up—hope—yet,"
he said, doggedly.

She kept smoothing his hair, until
Lord Canning joined them.  Then Glen
rose abruptly and went up to his room.

"Our young hero seems depressed,"
said Lord Canning, quietly.

"It's about Indiana," replied
Mrs. Stillwater, very much distressed.

"He's a fine fellow, but, if you'll
pardon me for saying so, Mrs. Stillwater,
he's not the right husband for
your daughter."

"He understands her better than a
stranger would.  He'd get along with
her, I'm sure."

"Is it so difficult to get along with
her?" enquired Lord Canning.

"Oh, I didn't mean that," replied
Mrs. Stillwater, quickly.  "There's no
one more lovable and easy, if she's
studied."

"What do you think of me as a
husband for your daughter?" said Lord
Canning, quietly.

"Lord Canning, you're not in earnest?"

"Why not?  I should like to take
my place in the matrimonial competition,
if you have no objection."

She looked at him, standing there
with such apparent composure.  "What
objection could I have to a man like
you?  But, I'm not the one to be
consulted.  Whatever Indy decides, I must
be satisfied with.  Oh, dear!  Oh, dear!"

"Mrs. Stillwater, the idea is
evidently disagreeable to you?"

"Oh no, not at all.  But Indiana's
so young, and you live so far away—and
she is so unfit to be alone—without
us.  But don't consider me—I have
nothing whatever to say."

"I had a pressing correspondence
to-day, Lord Canning," said Stillwater,
emerging upon the balcony.  His wife
put her hand on his shoulder.

"Father!  Father!"

"Well, mother, what is it?"

"Lord Canning wants to marry Indy?"

"Does he?" asked Stillwater,
composedly.  "Too bad—too bad."

His wife sighed heavily, and was on
the point of leaving them, when Lord
Canning took her hand, looking
sympathetically into her eyes.  "Why not
stay and help me out?"

"Oh, I really must go—Indy's waiting
for me.  I never let anyone do
anything for her.  I always lay out her
dresses, and brush her hair, and wait on
her.  She gets cross if I don't—and I
love to do it."

"You don't approve of me, Mrs. Stillwater?"

"I do," she answered, tremulously.
"I like you very much—you're such a
nice, modest man for your position.
Will you—" she hesitated, he still held
her hand, looking inquiringly into her
eyes, "will you wait a while and think
it over before you ask Indy?"

"I have waited and thought it over
well," replied Lord Canning, in a very
decided tone.  "I know this is very
unusual, but, for the life of me, I
couldn't ask a young woman to marry
me until I was sure I would be
acceptable to her parents."

"You are, you are," assured
Mrs. Stillwater, quickly, "but it will be a
great trial to lose her—that's what I was
thinking of—only that."  The tears
rushed to her eyes.  She turned and
mounted the stairs, hastily.

"Mother is naturally upset when she
thinks of Indy getting married," said
Stillwater, who had been gravely listening.

"Naturally," agreed Lord Canning.
"Suppose we walk down to the lake,"
he added, with an Englishman's dislike
of being overheard.

"Marrying young runs in our
family," remarked Stillwater, as they
descended the steps.  "My wife was
sixteen, when she married, and grandma
only fifteen.  There's always somebody
turning up, wanting to marry Indiana.
But she's never been serious about
anyone, I'm happy to say."

Lord Canning looked meditatively
upon the ground, pushing, with the tip
of his shoe, the thick layer of pine
needles.  Finally he looked up,
smiling.  "If I could make her serious
about me, would you object?"

"Why should I?" asked Stillwater,
dryly.  "I don't have to live with you."

"Oh, no," replied Lord Canning,
accepting the remark in a serious
sense, "there's no possible necessity
for it."  Stillwater gave an involuntary
chuckle, and, seating himself on a rustic
bench built between two trees, offered
his would-be son-in-law a cigar.  "I
ought to feel very much honored, Lord
Canning, but I haven't reached that
stage of imperialism, although my
mother-in-law is a fiend on that
subject.  American women generally are.
They're natural imperialists.  They head
a despotic monarchy at home."  He
laughed heartily, while his guest
surveyed him gravely, lighting his cigar.

"Mr. Stillwater, I hope you do not
consider my title against me?"

"Oh, not at all, not at all,"
smoking, in a very comfortable position.
"It might help you with Indiana.  It
would be a new fad for her.  You
know we all have our fads.  It's a good
thing for us, too.  Personally I like
you.  I like you very much.
But—er—" he hesitated, studying the lake.
There was plainly something on his
mind which he considered should be
said.  Finally he rose, placing his hand
kindly on Lord Canning's shoulder.  "I
want to give you a quiet piece of advice,
and if you don't take it I want you to
consider it as never having been
said—will you?"

"I will, sir," said Lord Canning, gravely.

"Don't marry my daughter!"

"Why?"

"It'll never pan out.  Your ways are
not her ways; her thoughts and your
thoughts are as far apart as—as if she
spoke Chinese and you Pennsylvania
Dutch."

"Mr. Stillwater, I am not easily
frightened.  The more difficulties I
encounter, the more determined I am
to win."

"Now, don't misunderstand me,"
added Stillwater, quickly.  "My
daughter's no worse than any other man's
daughter—women, as women, are all
all alike.  But we understand and know
how to get along with them.  I married
very young, and I continued to live
with my wife, my mother-in-law, and
my daughter, all different dispositions,
without quarrelling."

"Yes, I have observed and admired
the equilibrium of your household.  It
would be very valuable to me to know
how you manage it.  Will you let me
into the secret, Mr. Stillwater?"

"Ha, ha, ha!  Easy enough—I give in!"

"You give in?" Lord Canning asked,
incredulously.

"Every time," replied his host,
proudly.  "I never stand out against
them, so they can't quarrel with
me—and when they quarrel between
themselves, I agree with them
all—separately."  He looked at his guest with a
self-congratulatory expression.

"I'm afraid I could not adopt that
method," he said quietly, flicking the
ashes from his cigar.

"There," Stillwater exclaimed,
triumphantly, "I told you it wouldn't
do!"  They heard Mrs. Bunker laughing in the
woods with Lord Stafford, and presently
she came through the trees, in her
scarlet cape, bare-headed, followed by
her guest carrying a wicker basket,
brimful of balsam sprigs.

"We've been balsaming," she said.

"I beg pardon," remarked Lord Canning.

"Balsaming," she repeated.  "That's
what they call it here—picking balsam."  She
knocked his forehead lightly with
her forefinger.  "See it now—or shall
I get a hammer?"

He laughed.  "My stupidity must try
your patience at times, Mrs. Bunker."

"I wanted some to fill the pillow I
am making for Lord Stafford to take
to England—when he goes."  Lord
Stafford offered her his arm, and,
laughing, they continued their way to
the camp.

"Then you haven't much faith in
our speedy departure—although you
drank the toast last night, Mrs. Bunker?"

"Not in yours—your nephew's, yes.
But I don't imagine you'll go with him."

"Probably not, Mrs. Bunker.  Under
certain circumstances, I might
consider it advisable to prolong my trip.
And I must say the prospect of remaining
in America is delightful to me—most delightful."

"The fact is, Lord Canning," continued
Stillwater, "we spoil our children.
We know it, but we can't help
it.  The girls, mind you—the boys are
easy enough thrown on the world—but
the girls," he smiled fondly, "the
pretty, little, delicate girls—how can
you help spoiling them?  You should
have seen Indy—"  Lord Canning's face
assumed an expression of deep interest.
"A doll—you could have put her in a
quart pitcher.  She'd roll up her little
sleeves, and fight and sass me—we'd
roar at her.  As she grew up, it grew
with her, and now when she gets in a
temper, we all scatter till she's over it.
And then she creeps under your coat,
like a little, white mouse, and loves you
so, with her pretty hands and her soft
face.  Now, what can a man do?"

Lord Canning regarded his host
reflectively.  "You begin early to make
a rough road for the girl's future
husband, don't you?"

"Oh, no! Our people understand
that every man is under the thumb of
his wife, and is proud of it."

This assertion sounded astounding
to the listener.  Before, however, he
could grasp its full value, he caught
sight of Indiana's white dress among
the pines.  As he watched her coming
toward them, her head making a light
advancing spot among the dark trees,
Stillwater's friendly warning faded from
his mind as completely as though it had
never been given.

"It all rests with her now," he thought.

"Why so serious?" said Indiana.
"Let me into this secret discussion.
If it's not snow and ice, and the North
Pole, I know more about it than Lord
Canning—and if it's not farming, I
know more about it than pa."

"I guess I'll let you fight it out with
Indiana," remarked Stillwater, dryly.
He looked at her, with a sigh, then
climbed slowly up to the camp.

"We were discussing many things,"
said Lord Canning, bashfully.  "Marriage;
the training of children—"

"Marriage—with pa?" replied Indiana,
with a laugh.  "He's absolutely
ignorant on the subject."

"Remarkable," said Lord Canning,
"considering he's seventeen years married."

"Oh, that was only a boy-and-girl
affair.  In those days it was a farm, a
wife to do the housework—and they
always lived happily."

"I wish it were as simple a matter
with you as with your mother,"
ventured Lord Canning.

"I'm different from mother.  If I
were not, you would not—"

"What?" asked Lord Canning.

"Oh, nothing," stooping to pick up
a sprig of balsam, which had fallen from
Lord Stafford's basket.

"Let us follow that little trail down
there beside the lake," suggested Lord
Canning, "do you mind?"

The day had been sunless.  The evening
was still and gray, the air soft and
balmy, without a tinge of frost.  Through
the trees that fringed the trail, they
caught glimpses of the glassy lake
mirroring the gray floating clouds, and
great masses of autumn color, with
sometimes the intervening dark shadow
of a group of pines.

"Men to you are like a large
correspondence, which is read carelessly,
'answered' scribbled on the envelopes,
then piled into pigeon holes—forgotten."

"I always throw old letters away,"
said Indiana, sweetly.  "I never accumulate rubbish."

"Oh!" said Lord Canning.  He
walked beside her for a little while,
thinking deeply.  "How silent it is
here," he remarked, finally.  "This
soft carpet of pine needles muffles every
footstep.  It seems sacrilege almost, to
speak.  This trail seems to me like a
dim, narrow aisle of a church, leading
to the altar."  He looked upward at
the glimpse of gray sky.  "Indiana, I
am a very serious man.  I accept life as
worth living only with serious
aims."  They emerged upon a small open
space in the woods, dimly lit, with a
Turkish carpet of many-colored leaves.
He drew Indiana down upon a fallen
tree, covered with silvery patches of
gray-green moss.  "My ideal of a wife
has been an intellectual woman of my
own world and standing.  But your little
hands have bowled over, like a set of
ninepins, all my long cherished traditions
and ideas.  You have taken possession
of me, in a way which terrifies me.  I
am miserable away from you.  I am
miserable with you.  I am restless,
sleepless—you flit before me like a tantalizing
will-o'-the-wisp, whose light draws,
maddens me.  My pen is idle, my mail lies
upon the table—unanswered.  Tell me,
have I a chance with you—or let me go.
Let me put the ocean between us, for
self-preservation."

"I don't wish you to think I trifle
with marriage because I have refused
several offers," said Indiana, seriously.
"It's not waywardness or frivolity."

"Indiana!"

"You admit, in your feeling for me,
reason has no place.  And that your
ideal of a wife is something entirely
different from myself."

"Yes," said Lord Canning. "Reason
has no place.  It is love—love alone."

"I want you to know me as I really
am, then—if you are willing to take the
chances—"

"Willing!"  He raised her hand to
his lips.

"I am very much spoiled," Indiana
continued.

"You have all the imperfections which
make you charming to a lover, you will
have all the virtues which will make
you—divine to your husband."

"I must have my own way—even
when I'm wrong.  I'm fond of change,
nothing pleases me long.  I'm quick
tempered, spiteful—but I'm always
sorry for it, after—always."

"Sweetheart, I have watched you
closely.  I have seen glimpses of
splendid feeling and heart in you, that have
become choked by indulgence.  Other
conditions will develop the good that is
in you—I am quite confident of it."

She looked through the trees at the
gray lake.  "I could be different—it is
in me—but—somehow—"

He watched her face, caressing her
hand.  "You will love my mother, dear.
She is a type of English womanhood.
She is not strong, and has lived a retired
life for many years.  Our house may be
quiet for you—at first."

"Oh, don't worry about that.  I'll
make it lively enough."

"Darling!"  He tried to draw her
into his arms, but she resisted him.

"Wait."

"What more, pretty penitent?"

"Yes.  I want you to promise me that
when I'm mad and want to do
inconsistent things, and have my own
way—when it's not good for me—I want you
to promise me, no matter how much
you love me—that you won't give in."

He laughed at her earnest little face.
"I'm afraid I shall—I feel now as if I
shall let you do anything, I love you so."

"Then I won't marry you.  I've
tried to control myself, but I can't,
because everybody's so afraid of me.  It
makes me much worse.  You're the
first man I've ever taken seriously."

"Do you love me, Indiana?"

"No.  I'm tired of the model farm—I'm
tired of Grandma Chazy—I'm tired
of Washington and New York, and I
want to go to England."  His expression
sank at this frank avowal, only to change
again at her next words.  "I—I feel
that marriage to me must mean the
changing of every condition—or—" she
looked imploringly into his anxious
eyes, "I won't make a success of my
life—and I want to be something more
than I am—something better."  She
added quickly, "And, I wouldn't marry
you, if I did not think I could love
you—some day."

"I believe in the love which comes
after marriage," he said firmly.  "Given
a fairly matched pair, the man the
stronger, and there's no danger.  I'm
sure I shall make you love me."

"And you promise—"

"I promise, no matter how much I
suffer, I won't give in."  He clasped
her into his arms, and kissed her
passionately.  A sudden wave of color
surged over her face, and she drew
herself away, with downcast eyes.  He
watched her anxiously, holding her
hand.  Then he persuaded her to sit
down beside him on the moss-grown
trunk.  "A little sleeping soul has been
given my into my care," he thought,
smoothing her hair gently.  "I must
cherish it until it wakes.  After waiting—after
infinite patience—her love, when
given, will be all the sweeter.  I shall
prize it more than if it had been easily
won.  We must wait for the most precious
things in life.  That is the supreme
lesson to learn—how to wait—so we
shall be worthy of life's golden gift,
when it comes.  It must come—the
very power of my own love for her—the
very force of my will, must bring it.
Life owes it to me—her love."  He
touched his lips to her hair.

"Now, let's go and tell the folks,"
said Indiana.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`England`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   England.

.. vspace:: 2

"Jennings!"

"Yes, yer leddyship!"

"I thought I heard carriage wheels."

"Not yet, yer leddyship."

Lady Canning sighed, and Jennings
sank stiffly on his knees and poked the
fire, as he had done innumerable times
within the hour.

"Her leddyship will be ill," he
mumbled to himself over the fire.
"It's a terrible strain for her leddyship."

"Jennings!"

"Yes, yer leddyship."

"Look again!  I thought I heard
them—this time."

Jennings rose with difficulty, pushed
aside the heavy draperies that screened
the library windows, and peered
through the fog.

"Not yet—yer leddyship."  He
adjusted the curtains carefully with his
shaking fingers.  "Will I bring the
tea, yer leddyship?"

"No, Jennings, I will have tea with
my son and his young wife."

"His lordship may not arrive for
sometime—yer leddyship may be faint."

"Yes, but nevertheless, I am firmly
resolved to wait, Jennings."  She
closed her eyes with an expression of
resignation.

"Very well, yer leddyship," said
Jennings, in a heart-broken voice.  He
left the room noiselessly.

Lady Canning sat motionless in her
large arm-chair near the fire.
Approaching seventy years of age, there
were still remnants of beauty in those
fine, delicately cut features, slightly
pinched through illness.  Her calm,
impassive face seemed to have
outlived every stage of emotion, or lived
through the emotional stage, without
having experienced the emotions.  For
twenty years since the death of her
husband she had maintained the strictest
seclusion.  A cobweb of ivory-tinted
lace rested on her white, carefully
dressed hair, and a fichu of the same
was drawn over her attenuated shoulders.

The room in which she sat was a
proper frame for her personality.  It
was filled with objects, some of rare
value, that had mellowed with age.
The years had taken from everything
its element of aggressiveness.  The
tapestries, the paintings, the books, the
furniture, blended into harmony of soft
and faded hues.

Lady Canning suffered considerable
excitement at the prospect of seeing
her only son once more, after an
absence of ten months, not to speak of a
certain anxiety regarding her
daughter-in-law.  Thurston had written, "I will
not describe Indiana.  I wish you to
form your own impressions."

"My dear son had no idea I would
suffer any suspense regarding his
wife," she reflected, "otherwise he
would have written me every
particular.  He doubtless thought I would
have every confidence in his judgment.
And my fears have probably not the
slightest foundation.  It seems
impossible that my son should select a woman
for his wife who would be unfitted for
the position.  And yet, it appears
strange he should have gone so far
away from home to choose a daughter
for me.  It is quite natural I should
have preferred him to marry a woman
in his own sphere, from another old,
conservative English family.  I should
have felt surer, then, that there would
have been no after-complications.  There
are so few left of the real conservative
families.  The watchword of the others
is 'Progress.'  They grasp, all too
quickly, every new idea that claims
to be an improvement on the old.  But
we are more careful—we cling to our
traditions—our old ideals of life.
There are none better.  There is Lady
Isabel Waring—still unmarried, not a
beauty—but great caste—great caste.
She would have been devoted to me."  Lady
Canning sighed and opened her eyes.

Jennings was lighting the candles in
the tall, many-branching candelabras
on the mantel.  The Canning mansion,
in common with other old London
homes, had been fitted up with every
modern improvement, including
electric lights; but Lady Canning, when
she was alone, still clung to the
old-fashioned candle-light, claiming it was
softer, more agreeable for her eyes.
Jennings was still allowed to perform
the function of many years, much to
his delight.  He had a deep-rooted
hatred of all innovations.

"This suspense is quite natural,"
thought Lady Canning, "in spite of
my confidence in Thurston.  I am a
mother.  A mother fears everything—and
hopes everything."

Jennings suddenly paused in his
occupation and inclined his head,
listening.  Then he blew out his taper, and
hurried to the window.  "They're
here, yer leddyship!  Yer leddyship!"  His
voice quivered with excitement,
and he looked apprehensively at his
mistress, as though he feared she
might faint or give way in some
respect.  She rose, supporting herself
upon a cane.

"Jennings," she said in a strong
voice, "you had better join the other
servants in the hall.  You will be the
first for whom your master will look."

"Ye—es, yer leddyship."

"I am prepared for anything,"
thought Lady Canning.  "But no
matter how unfavorably I may be
impressed at first sight, I must control my
feelings for Thurston's sake.  He will
naturally be sensitive regarding her."

Thurston presented a beaming face
to the servants, lining the hall, as he
entered with his bride.  Before he
greeted them, he took Indiana in his
arms and pressed a kiss on her lips.

"Welcome to your new home, my
dearest wife!  I'm glad to see you all,"
he added, in heartfelt tones.
"Jennings, you're looking well!"  He
pressed both the old man's hands in his.

"Welcome home, yer lordship, yer lordship!"

"Indiana, this is Jennings.  You've
heard me speak of him.  He's been in
the family since I was a child."

Indiana's blue eyes smiled into those
of the old Scotchman.  "How do you
do, Jennings?" she said, with a friendly
handshake.  Jennings carried her hand,
with a shaking motion, to his lips.

"His lordship's young wife," he
murmured, looking with ecstatic
delight into her face.

"My mother, Jennings?"

"Her leddyship's well, yer lordship.
Her leddyship's in the library."

He hurried before them, but Thurston
rushed past him, carrying Indiana
on his arm, his hand clasped on hers.
They laughed back at the old man, and
he echoed the laugh childishly, with
tears in his eyes.  "You can't
announce us, Jennings!" cried Thurston.

Lady Canning was still standing, with
stately repose, by the fire.  There was
no trace, on her calm face, of the
agitation she had been suffering, beyond an
expression of pleasurable anticipation—the
only visible sign of feeling in which
she would allow herself to indulge.

"Mother!"

"My dear son!"

He held her in a prolonged embrace.
When he finally released her, she
applied a morsel of lace to her eyes.

"My wife, mother," he said in a
voice of immeasurable content and
pride, placing Indiana in her arms.
"Your daughter, Indiana."

Lady Canning was conscious of
holding a morsel of humanity in her arms
and of pressing her lips to a childish
cheek.  Then, as she surveyed her, she
received an impression of something
very young and small, with the
coloring of an apple-blossom, whose
deep-blue eyes met hers, struggling between
consciousness, laughter and tears.

Realizing that her vague fears had
no worse foundation than this childish
creature, daintily costumed, her relief
was so great that she took her in her
arms again and pressed another kiss on
her forehead.

Though Thurston had been perfectly
confident of the effect Indiana would
produce, he was none the less delighted
at this mark of favorable impression.

"My dear child," said Lady
Canning, "you must look upon me as a
mother—you are still too young to be
without one."

In order to control her tears, Indiana
bit her handkerchief, which she was
nervously rolling in her hands.  The
difference between her mother's last
despairing kiss and the touch of Lady
Canning's calm lips, was too strong.

"You no doubt wish to go to your
apartments now, my dear," said Lady Canning, kindly.

"Yes, I should," agreed Indiana
with a little, nervous laugh.  She was
quite indifferent about going to her
apartments just then, but there was
such a sure assumption of her
acquiescence in Lady Canning's tone it was
almost equivalent to an order.

"Thurston, ring for Watson.  We
will have tea presently.  You are
longing for some tea, my dear, are you not?"

"Yes," said Indiana, feeling that it
was expected of her to say so.

"Watson, show Lady Canning her
apartment.  They have been newly
furnished for you, my dear child, and I
have not only followed Thurston's
written injunctions, but, in addition,
carried out some of my own."  Thurston
raised her hand, which he was holding,
to his lips.  She smiled on him fondly.
"I hope you will like your rooms, Indiana."

"I am sure I shall, Lady Canning,"
said Indiana, with a bright smile and a
mental resolve to like them very much.
She had recovered from the tearful
stage and felt now quite equal to her
surroundings.

"And you will find your maid a very
competent person—she brought the
highest references," added Lady Canning.

Thurston led her to the door,
pressing a kiss on her forehead.

"Is everyone old here?" thought
Indiana, as Watson, a very elderly woman
with snow-white hair, led the way,
mounting the stairs with difficulty.  "I
don't like old people to wait on me.  I
shall feel more like waiting on
them."  However, she found the maid Lady
Canning had selected, a very young,
cheerful person.  The gloomy
impression she had received below was
counteracted by her own suite of rooms,
which were cheerfully and lightly
furnished, in the daintiest of coloring.
The boudoir was hung in shades
varying from rose to palest pink; the
ceiling hollowed and tinted to imitate
a sea-shell; fairy-like crystal fixtures
gleamed from the walls.  There were a
few treasures of art here and there
amidst the draperies.  A Greuze, hung
in the best light, attracted Indiana
immediately.  Pink roses filled every
available spot, in fragile vases of
Venetian glass of the dolphin design.
Indiana felt an impulse of gratitude toward
Lady Canning for these preparations,
in which loving care and the most
exquisite taste were apparent.  Minute
attention had been paid to detail—no
possible contrivance for her comfort
overlooked.  The maid told her that
Lady Canning, herself, had arranged
the flowers in the boudoir and upon
the dressing-table.

"I must have acted like a fool at
first," thought Indiana, fastening a
pink rose, from one of the vases, in the
breast of her travelling-dress, before
going down.  "When she said
something about being a mother to
me—that set me off.  Poor ma!  I hope she
isn't fretting.  I can't forget dad yet, as
he looked when he wished me
good-bye."  Stillwater had not allowed his
wife to go down to the steamer—he
thought she had suffered enough.
Mrs. Bunker remained with her
daughter.  When Indiana waved her
handkerchief as the steamer left the dock,
he thought of the day when she was
laid in his arms.

"She is very young, Thurston,"
remarked Lady Canning, after Indiana
had left the library, "a mere child."

"A mere child," echoed Thurston,
with a very tender intonation.  "You
are right, mother."  He sat down close
beside her, taking her hand in his.
"Yet I was instantly attracted to her.
You, too, will soon feel the charm that
she exercises, all unconsciously.  I
have no words to tell you how I love
her."  His face grew very serious.

"That is quite enough to recommend
her.  She must certainly have
exceptional qualities.  A very fortunate
girl to have inspired such a love in
you—I daresay she fully realizes that."

Thurston smiled involuntarily.  Indiana
took his devotion as a matter of
course.

"She has a winning smile," said
Lady Canning.  "I could see she was
quite effected by the warmth of my
reception—I no doubt remind her of
her own mother.  She is very young to
marry and leave home.  But perhaps
after all her youth is in her favor.  She
is such a child it will be easy to mould
her—don't you think so, Thurston?"

"Er—yes, of course, mother,"
answered Thurston, pulling his mustache
in some perplexity.  He foresaw an
endless vista of trouble in case of any
perceptible effort to mould Indiana.

"We must not expect too much of the
child," continued Lady Canning.  "Be
sure you do not make such a mistake
in the beginning, Thurston.  Coming
from a place where there is no idea of
caste, she will naturally make many
mistakes.  It will take time before she
can fit into her position as she should.
You see, Thurston, I am ready to make
every allowance for your wife."

He bent down and kissed her frail
white hands.  There was a large
measure of reverence in his love for her.
"I have given Indiana my Greuze,
Thurston."

"Your Greuze, of which you've
always been so fond?"

"Yes.  I believe in the influence of
fine arts upon the young.  Your wife's
mind is now budding out, drinking
every new impression as eagerly as a
flower drinks the dew.  It is for us to
see that those impressions are of the
highest nature."

Indiana entered, very bright and
smiling.  She went immediately up to
Lady Canning and kissed her.

"I don't know how to thank you for
all the trouble you have taken, Lady
Canning."

Lady Canning smiled in a gratified
manner.  "I am amply repaid, if you
are pleased, my dear child."

Jennings then brought in the tea.
He looked so aged, Indiana felt like
jumping up and taking the tray from
him, at the same time pushing him
gently into an arm-chair.  He was a
little, thin old man with sharp features
and blue eyes, his snow-white hair
plastered smoothly on each side of his
head.  He had been in the family since
a boy, and, as is generally so in such
cases, his individuality, his interests,
or, properly speaking, his entire life,
had become absorbed in those whom
he had served.  His position now was
purely nominal, consisting principally
of light duties, which kept him in near
proximity to the family.

Lady Canning, talking in her low,
distinct tones, dispensed the tea from
a very old massive tea-service.
Indiana noticed that she never raised her
voice, and she dropped her own insensibly.
She was, wisely, not too profuse
in her praises of her apartments, quick
to see that Lady Canning was not of a
nature to appreciate much demonstration.
But she continued to show her
gratitude delicately by an opportune
remark now and then.

"I have not heard much from your
Uncle Nelson," remarked Lady Canning.
"Oh, don't worry about him," laughed
Indiana.  "He's enjoying himself
immensely—isn't he, Thurston?"

"Yes, my darling.  He has really quite
assimilated himself with the American
life, mother."

"Indeed!  You surprise me.  One
would have thought at his age, that
that would have been very difficult—"

"Oh, not at all," interrupted Indiana.
"You see, my grandmother has taken
him in charge.  They go out together,
everywhere."

"Your grandmother," repeated Lady
Canning, raising her eyebrows.  "And
she is able to go out—everywhere?"

Indiana gave vent to a burst of
merriment, then checked herself, suddenly.
Her laughter had sounded very loud in
those quiet surroundings.  "Grandma
Chazy enjoys life more than any of us.
She's full of health and spirits."

"Remarkable, is it not, Thurston?"

"Women don't grow old in the States, mother."

"They take all they can, out of life,
to the last gasp," explained Indiana.

"I should not like to censure women
of another environment to my own,"
said Lady Canning.  "But at a certain
age, I think it better fitting to prepare
oneself for the next life, than to still
seek enjoyment from this.  How does
it appear to you, my dear child?"

Indiana hesitated, then met Thurston's
eyes fixed anxiously upon her.  "As
you say, Lady Canning, I think it would
be better fitting," she answered, seriously.

"I'm glad you agree with me," said
Lady Canning, well pleased.  "From
this one example, Thurston, I am
inclined to think that my ideas and
Indiana's run very much in the same
groove."

"So it seems," he answered, stroking
her hand, and watchful of Indiana,
whose face, however, maintained its
serious expression.  From this
conversation, Lady Canning was artfully led
by her daughter-in-law into delivering
a homily on the seriousness of life, and
the necessity of control, where the
pleasure-loving instincts of the young
were concerned.  Indiana took every
opportunity of agreeing with her, sitting
up stiffly, like a flaxen-haired doll, in the
high backed chair, nodding at intervals,
and with an expression of grave
self-importance, that contrasted oddly with
her rosebud prettiness.  Meeting
Thurston's eyes, which were fixed upon her in
open surprise, she frowned reprovingly,
and drew herself up a little more stiffly.
"This is a very happy moment for me,"
said Lady Canning, with a gentle sigh,
"to have you with me again, Thurston—with
your wife—I can hardly realize
it yet.  I think Indiana and I are going
to be very congenial, Thurston.  Come
here, and sit down by me, my dear child."

Indiana obeyed, and Lady Canning
took her hand and patted it gently.

"Now I have a son and a daughter.
I hope you will be happy in your new
home, my dear."

"Thank you, Lady Canning," said
Indiana, "I intend to be happy."

"That's right.  Now, though we
have much to say, I think it advisable
to reserve it for this evening.  It is best
that I should rest until dinner."

"I hope this has not been too much
excitement for you, mother," said
Thurston, solicitously, giving her his arm.

"Pleasant excitement will not harm
me, but I must be careful.  I will see
you at dinner, Indiana."  She kissed her
on the forehead.  Thurston led her to
the door, Indiana accompanying them.

"I did not know you were such an
artist in dissimulation, Indiana," said
Thurston, taking her head in his hands
and gazing into her mischievous eyes.

"To what are you referring, may I
ask?" she inquired, in a dignified tone.

"Why, the tactics you have begun
with my mother.  She thinks you are a
perfect paragon."

"And, am I not?" drawing herself up.

"Yes," answered Thurston, laughing
and kissing her hands.

Indiana found dinner a slow and
tedious ceremony.  It was noiselessly
served, without the clatter of a dish or
the sound of a footfall.  At intervals,
Jennings' old face peered into hers,
consulting her wishes in a whisper.
Their places were set very far apart at
the large, round table, handsomely
equipped with heavy silver and crystal,
as though for a formal banquet, and
decorated with white roses and maidenhair
fern, in honor of the bride.  She
had selected from her trousseau a
French gown of white satin, showing
her childish neck.  The maid had
dressed her yellow hair in puffs in the
correct English style.  She was very
quiet during dinner.  Her head still
felt a little unsteady from the steamer,
and when Thurston or Lady Canning
spoke, their voices sounded very far away.

Her impressions that first night in
her new home were most indistinct.
She had a floating conception during
dinner of old mahogany, silver, and
armor.  Later, in the library, as she
listened to Thurston entertaining his
mother with details of his American
trip, she was the victim of a feeling
of unreality, inspired by surroundings
altogether new and so entirely old.
The candle-light seemed to point, with
long, mysterious fingers, to the books
which lined the walls, indicating dark
and magic secrets locked between their
ancient covers, and to waver upon the
faded figures in the Gobelin tapestries
until they appeared to move, endowed
with life.  Lady Canning, leaning back
near the fire, with her fine, pinched
features, her white, fragile hands
resting motionless upon the arms of her
chair, seemed like a figure moulded in wax.

When his mother retired, Thurston
took Indiana through the house.
Jennings solemnly preceded them,
lighting up the rooms.  Standing in the
background, he nodded his head from
time to time in corroboration, as
Thurston explained the family portraits and
related the histories of various heirlooms.

As the first months in England
slowly passed, Indiana's single life
seemed like a dream to her.  Her
marriage proved the changing of every
condition, as she had wished.  And
she preferred to think she had acted
for the best.  One fact gave her a great
and unselfish pleasure.  She had won
Lady Canning's love, completely, by
pursuing the artful policy with which
she had started, based on a very shrewd
idea of the elder woman's character.

Thurston missed her old spontaneity,
and watched her closely, unknown to
her.  His loving solicitude, which
often tried to discover delicately if she
missed her old life, or if there was
anything lacking in the new which he
could supply, only made her impatient.
She professed to be perfectly happy,
yet he sometimes felt as though he had
caged a bird, who refused to sing.
Still the bird had flown willingly into
his hand.  His tender worship had
won nothing from her, so far, but an
amiable tolerance.  They were in the
position of queen and vassal.  His
pride suffered bitterly at times.  His
hope that she would learn to love him
had grown into a great and secret
longing.  He felt it to be the only solution
of them both.  His very existence was
now based on this consummation.
The best of life is given to building a
beautiful fabric of spider's webs,
colored with the passing tints of the
rainbow—because there is an everlasting
charm in that which fades before the
eyes, and can be demolished by a touch.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Transplantation`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   Transplantation.

.. vspace:: 2

Lord Stafford arrived in
England some months later.
He drove up to the house one Sunday
morning an hour earlier than he was
expected.  Lady Canning and Indiana
had not yet come home from church.
After welcoming him, with tears of joy,
Jennings tottered upstairs to tell
Thurston.  Lord Stafford went into the
library and, with a sense of happiness
to be again in his old surroundings,
toasted himself once more before an
English fire.

"Uncle Nelson!" exclaimed Thurston,
rushing into the room.

"Thurston, my boy!"

Relinquishing his hand, Lord Stafford
subjected his nephew to a critical
survey.

"Well," said Thurston, laughing,
"is the examination satisfactory?"

"You've changed—for the better,"
answered his uncle with a puzzled
expression.  "More vivacity.  In fact,
you've grown younger."

"I'll explain.  I was an old bachelor.
Now, I am a young married man."  They
both laughed heartily.

"So the international combination has
panned out, as we say in the States?"

"Worked like a charm from the
start," said Thurston.

"Remarkable.  And with your mother?"

"Mother has completely succumbed
to Indiana, and spoils her shockingly."

"I'm very glad of that, I'm sure.
I've been homesick ever since I saw
you off with your bride, but I was
really afraid to come home until the
new wife had fitted into the new
conditions."

"You don't know my Indiana.
Wait until you see how well she fits
into the new conditions."  They heard
the sound of carriage-wheels.
Thurston hurried to the window, his face
lighting up.  "Here they are—here's
my wife!"

Lord Stafford met them at the door
of the library.  "My dear sister!"
folding her in his arms.

"Nelson, I'm very glad to have you
at home, you wanderer!  You look
marvellously well, and tanned by the
sun.  Have you seen our dear little
daughter?  Where are you, Indiana?"  Thurston
had drawn her to the fire and
was taking off her gloves.

"Here, dear Lady Canning," said
Indiana demurely, with a strong effort
at an English accent.  "How do you
do, Uncle Nelson?"  She offered her
cheek, which he kissed, then surveyed
her with great curiosity.  She looked
the personification of English
maidenhood, dressed in a plain, gray gown,
without any pretension to style of cut.
A little bonnet, tied under her chin,
rested on her yellow puffs.  She stood
there, very demure and quiet, still
holding her prayer-book.

"And how do you find our sweet
child looking, Nelson?" inquired Lady
Canning, sinking into an arm-chair.

"By George, I should say I found
her very much changed!"

"For the better, dear Uncle
Nelson?" said Indiana, sweetly.

"When we transplant a flower,"
remarked Lady Canning, "we must
watch it very carefully for a time, lest
it wither in the process.  Indiana is a
most flexible little person.  She
appears to have taken root in our soil so
easily.  She had not been here a week
when she was perfectly at home."

"Thanks to your good advice, Lady
Canning.  You have taken so much
trouble with me."

"To be frank, Nelson, Indiana was
a most agreeable surprise.  When
Thurston wrote me that he had
selected a wife in the wilds of America, I
felt ill with fright.  I couldn't find out
anything about the place, and the name
suggested horrible visions of
half-breeds and wild girls who climb trees
and ride horses bareback."

"America is a very large country,
dear Lady Canning," said Indiana.
"There are tree-climbers and bareback
riders in the uncivilized parts, I
believe."  Thurston turned away to
conceal a laugh.  "In fact, I myself must
have appeared—er—strange to you at
first, did I not, dear Lady Canning?"

"Oh, no!  Only a little rasping quality
in the voice, which has since greatly
modified."

"That is our climate, dear Lady
Canning.  The sharp winds have a
tendency to pitch our voices in a high key."

"And your gowns, dear, were a little
too modern—too expensive for a young
wife.  You don't mind my saying it,
Indiana?"

Indiana gave her an angelic smile.
"I am so grateful to you.  Lady Canning
has given me the real English taste
in the selection of a gown," parading
before Lord Stafford, who, inserting
his monocle, inspected her seriously.
"Dowdy, isn't it?" she whispered,
as Lady Canning bent over the fire,
warming her hands.  "I adore Irish
poplins, Scotch plaids, English
cheviots—and seed-cake.  My first bonnet!
Isn't it a love?"  She tossed her head
waggishly in Lord Stafford's face, so
that a bunch of Prince-of-Wales
feathers tickled his nose.  "So
unbecoming!" she added in his ear.  Lady
Canning turned, with an expression of
smiling satisfaction.

"In my time, dear, as soon as a girl
married, she wore a bonnet with strings.
That's always the sign of a matron in
England.  You know there must be
something to distinguish the married
from the single woman."

"Yes, certainly, I approve of it,"
said Indiana.  "Then there can be no
fear of any mistakes being made by
strangers."  She heaved a deep sigh
of conscious virtue.  Lord Stafford
dropped his monocle and fell into a
chair, laughing unrestrainedly.

"You've caught on, Indiana!  Ha,
ha, ha, ha!  As they say in the
States—you've mashed them cold all 'round!
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"

"Dear Nelson," said Lady Canning,
severely, "what do you mean by such
expressions?  They appear to me very
vulgar.  Is it really American, Indiana?"

"Not at all, dear Lady Canning,"
said Indiana, reassuringly.  "Those
expressions you have just heard," she
shivered slightly, "are mere
barbarisms.  They are used only by the
natives of the uncultivated wastes."

"The natives.  A sort of dialect, I
suppose, my darling.  Go and lay off
your bonnet and smooth your hair."

Indiana pouted rebelliously at
Thurston.  "May I go?"  Sweetly, "Thank
you very much."

She kissed Lady Canning and walked
demurely to the door.

"Remarkable!" murmured Lord Stafford.

"The child has perfect manners,"
commented Lady Canning, with a sigh
of content, as Thurston followed
Indiana from the room.  "One would
think she had been born and bred in
England, thanks to my policy, from the
very beginning.  I don't allow her to
call me mother—the child's too young.
It's a better moral effect—and, with a
little tender firmness, combined with
just a spark of dignity that awes, I have
accomplished wonders.  I shudder to
think what would have been the results
if I had not been here.  Thurston
spoils her shockingly."

"Ah, does he?  Very wrong of him,
very unwise, I'm sure."

"Yes, is it not?  But it's turned
out very gratifyingly.  You know how
averse I've always been to Thurston
marrying a modern woman—one of
those editing magazines, forming clubs
and racing women?"  She shuddered.
"When Thurston broke it to me, I
was very doubtful of the results—very.
But his heart carried him away.  I don't
wonder at it.  She's so bright, so clever,
so amusing, so lovable.  She must have
come from very fine stock."

"Very," answered Lord Stafford,
seriously.  "You should see Grandma
Chazy Bunker.  She 'beats the band'—as
they say in the States."  He
regarded the ceiling with an expression
of delightful reminiscence, which
broadened gradually into a laugh.  He
rose suddenly and approached his sister.
"Helena, I am going to let you into
a little secret."  He looked around
mysteriously, then added, in a loud
whisper, "Indiana's people are in
London.  They came over with me from
America."

"Who?"

"Her father, mother, and grandmother,
and, as they say in the States"—Lady
Canning braced herself from
the shock which inevitably followed
this remark—"'they're going to make
Indiana's hair curl!'"

"Speak English, if you please."

"They're going to give her a surprise party."

Lady Canning looked at him
incredulously.  "Do you mean to say
they're going to drop down on that
poor child without sending her word?"

"You can bet your sweet life on it!
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"  He sank into an
arm-chair, overcome with mirth.  The
entire affair was a huge joke to him,
irrespective of the fact that his sister
failed to perceive the humor of his
communication.

"What an undignified proceeding!"
said Lady Canning, in shocked tones.
"Her grandmother, too!"  Lord Stafford
went off into another paroxysm of
mirth.  "Why, the highest respect is
due to their age in the way of preparation."

"In America there's nothing gives
so much pleasure as springing things
on a person.  The surprise party is a
national institution."

Lady Canning rose to her feet,
perceptibly agitated.  "My dear brother,
think of the shock to Indiana.  It
might be serious."

"'She won't turn a hair'—as we say
in the States.  She's a thoroughbred!
Ha, ha, ha, ha!"

"I'm very glad you told me.  I must
go and make some kind of a toilette
to receive them, and the housekeeper
must be apprised."

"My dear sister, 'don't put yourself
out'—as we say in the States."

"Poor Indiana!  Most unheard-of
proceedings!"

During dinner Indiana plied Lord
Stafford with questions about her
family, all of which he answered seriously,
with a knowing twinkle in his eyes.
Lady Canning regarded her
unconscious face with growing sympathy.
She went to her rooms immediately
after dinner.  "I shall not make my
appearance," she thought, "until all
the excitement is over.  I am upset
enough as it is.  I can scarcely look at
that poor child—I feel so badly for her."

Indiana, entering the library
demurely, and seeing that Thurston and
Lord Stafford were alone, rushed
toward them with a shrill little cry.  She
laughed as they both started to their feet.

"I'm only giving vent to my
repressed exuberance.  I can be natural
with Uncle Nelson, can't I, Thurston?"

"Why not be natural with my
mother?  It pains me to see you
playing a part with her.  She's not such a
dreadful person."

Indiana smiled comically at Lord
Stafford, sinking down upon the
hearth-rug at his feet.  "The
ingratitude of men!  He asked me to make
his mother love him, and to succeed it
was necessary to adapt myself to her
ways.  If I had argued with her, he
would have disagreed so radically it
would have been impossible to live
under the same roof.  I know that it is a
necessity at present, so I agree with her
in everything.  Consequently, I'm the
best, the most lovable girl in the world.
All the same, I own her, body and
soul—that's my method of subjugation.
Of course, he's not satisfied.  Nothing
I do pleases him."

"Indiana!"

"Uncle Nelson, I'm frightfully
good," continued Indiana, ignoring
Thurston, whose eyes were fastened
upon her in mute and tender reproach.
"I've never been so good in my life"—she
clasped her hands, raising her
eyes to the ceiling—"I feel like an
angel—so sweet, so obedient, so
ordinary.  Thurston doesn't appreciate it.
He doesn't love me as much as he did
before we were married."

"Indiana!" exclaimed Thurston,
seriously, "how can you say that?"

"I thought he was a gentleman of
leisure, and he works harder than a
farm hand.  He sits up half the night,
reading and studying.  If I had known
he was such a great scholar I wouldn't
have married him."

"Indiana, do you mean that?"

"No,"—serious face—"I was only
joking.  Uncle Nelson, do you think
he will ever be a great man?"

Lord Stafford glanced amusedly at
Thurston.  "I hope so."

"Oh, as great as Thomas Carlyle?
Don't say yes, because I'll run away.
You know what Jane Carlyle said about
the wives of men of genius?  They're
more miserable even—than—than
doctors' wives.  Thurston has symptoms.
He sits up all night and writes like
Carlyle.  Between times the old crank
used to go out in the back yard, and sit
on the fence and smoke a pipe—in his
night-shirt.  That's the next thing I'll
get."

The two men laughed heartily.  "You
little witch," exclaimed Thurston,
catching her up in his arms and kissing
her, "you are simply irresistible!"

"Now, I'll give you an imitation of
a chipmunk," cried Indiana, in high
spirits, jumping up on a lounge, and
imitating to perfection a chipmunk
sitting on its haunches and nibbling a
nut.  Lord Stafford applauded, while
Thurston watched the door, his mind
divided between admiration for his
little wife's clever imitation, and fear
that his mother might enter during the
performance.

"Do you remember the night we all
went on a moonlight picnic to the
Falls—and Glen was so jealous—poor
Glen!—and we sang 'On the Banks of the
Wabash'?—

   |  'Oh, the moonlight's fair to-night along the Wabash,
   |  From the field there comes the breath of new-mown hay,
   |  Through the sycamores the candle-lights are gleaming,
   |  On the banks of the Wabash, far away.'"
   |

Her voice quivered and she sank
upon the ground, sobbing like a child,
with her head against the table.

Thurston made one quick step
toward her and gathered her up in his
arms.  "My darling, don't cry!  You
break my heart."  He pressed her to
his breast, smoothing her hair
mechanically.  A hopeless expression had
settled in his eyes.  Lord Stafford
looked at them miserably, then
considered the best thing to do, under the
circumstances, was to make his escape
in the quietest manner possible.

Thurston sank into a chair, holding
his wife closely to his heart.  "I know
you're homesick—unhappy," he
whispered.  "I feel it, and I'm helpless
against it.  What can I do?"

"Nothing of the kind," she said,
lifting her head suddenly.  "There—I
frightened Uncle Nelson away!"  She
slipped from his arms to the floor.
"I'm not homesick.  I mean—not all
the time."  She gave a piteous little
gulp.  "That song upset me, and I
had a terrible longing just to get a
look at dad and mother and Grandma
Chazy, and then pack them all home
again."  Thurston heaved a sigh from
his heart.  "I wish you wouldn't take
me so seriously, Thurston," she
continued, in an aggrieved voice.  "Don't
watch every quiver of my eyes, and
think it's a tragedy.  Discipline's a
very good thing for me—I like it.  But
I wish you wouldn't believe every word
I say.  It's aggravating enough when
your mother does it."

"I'll try not to.  But I want to
follow your thoughts—I want to be one
with my wife."  He drew her to him,
gazing with yearning tenderness into
her eyes.  "It's difficult to—to adjust
my slow emotions to your rapidly
changing ones.  You force my
sympathy—and repel it—in a breath.
Your moods change with the minutes.
But all that wouldn't matter if I were
sure you were learning to love me—to
give only a little, in return for my deep
affection.  That would set my heart at
rest and smooth away all difficulties."  He
looked beseechingly into her eyes.
But she silently evaded his glance.
Her face had grown suddenly very
serious.  "Indiana!"

"I—I was thinking—perhaps it was
wrong to marry you—but I did not
love anybody else—and I will try."

"Indiana, if you knew how your
words stab me.  You have a terrible
capacity for torturing."

"Now you're sorry you married me."

"Sorry!" he repeated, intensely.
"I'd give up my life sooner than
you—I try to control my love, but I can't
keep it always smothered.  I don't
want to frighten you, child—for you
are only a child yet—but I shall keep
my word when I said I will make you
love me."  He pressed her passionately
in his arms.  "Indiana!"

"Thurston!" she murmured, for the
moment yielding to his embrace.

A discreet cough sounded in the
room.  Thurston released his wife
instantly.  Jennings came toward them,
holding a salver out with a hand which
shook more than usual.  There was
also a certain rigidity in his face, from
the effort to conceal emotion of some
kind.  Thurston took the card from
the salver, with a vague impression that
there was something strange in
Jennings' behavior.  Then his own
expression changed into incredulous
surprise.  He read, with a rising inflection
of the voice which ended in a shout:

"Mr. and Mrs. Stillwater—Mrs. Chazy
Bunker, Indiana, U.S.A."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"I Shall Keep My Promise"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   "I Shall Keep My Promise."

.. vspace:: 2

Indiana, with a scream of joy,
flung herself into her father's
arms.  He had followed Jennings
closely.  Also Mrs. Stillwater and
Mrs. Bunker.  The latter embraced
Thurston exuberantly, then Mrs. Stillwater
threw her arms about his neck, and
immediately tore herself away from him,
crying.

"That'll do, father.  Let me have
one kiss—oh!"  She was almost
hysterical with excitement.  "That'll do,
father."  He finally gave Indiana over
to her mother, who pressed her to her
breast, with inarticulate expressions of
love.  Stillwater then shook hands with
Thurston, who had met the onslaught
calm and smiling, though inwardly
rejoiced for his wife's sake.

"Come," said Mrs. Bunker, with a
beaming face, "pass her round."

"You dear old things," cried
Indiana, "this is what I call a surprise!
Now sit down, all of you."  She pulled
her father and mother down on the
lounge, sitting between them.
Mrs. Stillwater gazed at her, speechless with
happiness.  Stillwater smoothed her
hair tenderly, pressing her head against
his breast.  "Tell me all the news.
How's everybody at home?  Anybody
engaged—or married?  How did you
happen to come?  What put it in your
heads?  How long are you going to
stay?  How—?"

"Good gracious!" exclaimed
Mrs. Bunker, "one at a time, Indy."

Thurston stood aside, watching Indiana's
radiant face, with an unselfish joy
and an impulse of gratitude to the
kindly chance which had brought her
loved ones at the very moment when
they were so urgently needed.  Then
he withdrew quietly, thinking she
would like to be alone with them.  He
also wished to acquaint his mother with
the surprise.

"I've come over only for one
thing," said Mrs. Stillwater.  "That's
to see you, Indiana.  After you left,
and the excitement was over, I couldn't
settle down again.  My body was there,
but my heart and soul were following
you over the water.  I don't know how
we ever let you go," her eyes filled,
"and I couldn't stand it any longer.  I
had to come over to see for myself if
you were happy."  She looked
yearningly into Indiana's face.

"My dear mother," said Indiana,
tenderly, pressing her cheek to hers,
"my dear, kind, loving mother!"

"Mary," said Stillwater, severely.
"It's done now, and we must make the
best of it."  The spectacle of his wife
and child clasped in each other's arms,
affected him to an intense degree.
During the term of Indiana's
engagement and marriage, he had found it
necessary to be stern with his gentle
wife—without stringent measures—from
pure fear that she would collapse
utterly.  His severity served also as a
moral brace, when he himself was concerned.

Jennings entered in his usual noiseless
fashion.  "Would yer little leddyship
like tea served?"

"Yes, if you please, Jennings,"
answered Indiana, assuming her English
accent.  "Father, Jennings has been a
butler in our family all his life."  Every
eye was centred upon Jennings, who
bowed with a most self-congratulatory
expression, and walked proudly from
the room.

"Em—em—lack of ambition," said
Stillwater, "that's the trouble with this
country.  I could see it before I was
two hours landed.  The Britishers are
too well-satisfied with themselves.  Life's
too easy.  They haven't had to grow
up with a new town—they ought to have
been in my shoes, eh, mother?"

Mrs. Bunker walked about, surveying
the room.

"Father—mother—grandmother!"
exclaimed Indiana, taking the centre of
the room.  "I have married into a great
family.  None of your new nobility.
We are one of the few unadulterated
families in England, which has never
married out of its sphere—except in my
case.  And I shall assimilate, not
diverge.  No one speaks of progression
here.  All are sublimely content.  New
ideas are shunned, as modern depravity,
by her ladyship.  Look about you, at
these old family relics—"

"I expect to see a ghost every
moment," interrupted Mrs. Bunker,
affecting to shiver.

"It's like a nasty old vault," whispered
Mrs. Stillwater, confidentially, to her
husband.

"There's nothing better than us,"
remarked Indiana, with a toss of her
head.  "Nothing, from an ancestral
point of view."

"Indiana, drop that English accent,"
said Mrs. Bunker, sharply, "it's too
affected."

"Hush!" answered Indiana, looking
toward the door.  Thurston entered,
with Lady Canning on his arm.

Indiana approached her with a very
marked change of manner, speaking in
soft, low English tones.  "My dear
Lady Canning, I have had such a
delightful surprise.  This is my father and
mother."

"My dear Mrs. Stillwater, I am really
delighted.  And Mr. Stillwater."

"And this is my grandmother," continued
Indiana.

"Your grandmother!" exclaimed
Lady Canning, staring in surprise at
the vivacious and essentially modern
woman before her.  Mrs. Bunker, on
this occasion, wore a very becoming,
extremely youthful hat.

"It's difficult to realize, isn't it?"
remarked Mrs. Bunker, laughing and
flattered at Lady Canning's
astonishment.  "We consider it criminal in
the States for a woman not to look at
least ten years younger than she really
is.  I've always been regarded as a
remarkable woman for my age."

"The costume is deceiving,"
answered Lady Canning, regarding
Mrs. Bunker's fashionable attire with
disapproving eyes.  "At first glance I
thought you were a young woman,
Mrs.—er—"

"Bunker," smiling graciously.

"Mrs. Bunker.  However, on close
inspection, I see you are not."

Having thus summarily thrown cold
water on Mrs. Bunker's enthusiasm,
Lady Canning proceeded on Thurston's
arm to her usual chair by the fire,
Lord Stafford, entering shortly after,
exchanged laughing greetings with his
fellow-travellers.

"Lady Canning, I wouldn't harbor
any old bachelors," remarked Mrs. Bunker,
her irrepressible spirits rising
to the surface again.  "If he were my
brother, I'd just turn him out, and he
would be obliged to marry for a shelter."

"Mrs. Bunker," said Lord Stafford,
"I once heard a Yankee farmer say,
'An old hoss that's been jogging along
a good many years alone, is always
good to jog along a few years more,
but if you yoke him with another hoss,
he's winded at once, and goes to the
wall.'  Ha, ha, ha, ha!"

Indiana, who was sitting at the
tea-table, strained her eyes and ears, trying
to hear everything that was said.  At
one time she became so absorbed,
making anxious and involuntary comparisons
between her relatives and Thurston's,
that she forgot to pour out the
tea, while Jennings stood anxiously
watching her, waiting for the cups.

"And how do you find your daughter
looking, Mrs. Stillwater?" inquired
Lady Canning.

Mrs. Stillwater, sitting near the elder
lady by the fire, shook her head
dolefully.  "Her color's not as high as it
used to be.  I suppose it's living in
these dark, musty rooms.  And she's
used to flying about in the open air."

"Mother!" exclaimed Indiana.

"What is it, Indiana?" answered
Mrs. Stillwater, starting.

Indiana gave her a warning glance.
"You don't take sugar, do you?"

"No, dear," answered Mrs. Stillwater,
quite oblivious to the glance,
"Don't wait on me.  Shall I pour the tea?"

"Sit down, dear Mrs. Stillwater,"
said Lady Canning.  "Indiana always
does her duty as mistress of the house.
No doubt you miss her very much.  I
can understand that."

"I'll tell you frankly, I was very
much against it, she's the only one we
have.  I begged her not to do it.  I
even warned Thurston against her.
One must give in to Indiana in order to
get along with her, and, living with a
mother-in-law, I was afraid of it."

Lady Canning laughed quietly.

"Mother!" exclaimed Indiana.

"Yes, dear," answered Mrs. Stillwater.
She went over to Indiana and
bent over her.

"Stop that," whispered Indiana.

Mrs. Stillwater looked at her with a
piteous expression, then sank down
into a chair near the tea-table.

"This cup is for Lady Canning.
No, Jennings, I'll take it to her myself."

Mrs. Stillwater watched her jealously
as she waited on Lady Canning, and
drank her tea with a vague feeling of
disappointment in her reunion with
Indiana.  Mr. Stillwater inspected, with
interest, various objects in the room,
walking about with Thurston, their
cups in their hands.

"There's a solidity about all this,
which speaks for itself," said
Mr. Stillwater.  "It's no use talking, a man
can't buy it."  Thurston called his
attention to a tapestry.  "Yes, I
know—Gobelin—very fine.  I admire it right
here, because it belongs here.  But
when our millionaires import other
people's old furniture, even that of
princes and cardinals, and put it in
their brand-new American homes—it
seems to me snobbery.  The only
value of an antique is when it belongs
to a nation."

"I agree with you, Mr. Stillwater."

After some further conversation,
Lady Canning said, gently, to Indiana,
"My darling, will you excuse me now?
I know you have much to say to your
people."  She shook hands graciously
with them all.  "Now, when will you
come and dine with us?"

"Oh, we'll run in any old time," said
Mrs. Bunker.

"We won't wait for invitations,"
added Mr. Stillwater.  "We'll run over
to breakfast or supper, just as the spirit
moves us.  We'll take possession while
we're here."

"You will always be very welcome
whenever you care to come," answered
Lady Canning.  "But we are not used
to being taken unawares."  She bowed
with a set smile, as she left the room
leaning on her brother's arm.  But her
presence was still felt by a perceptible
chill in the atmosphere.  Thurston,
however, soon dispelled the restraint.
He took them through the house, entertaining
them with histories of different
family relics, to which they listened
with interest.  Then they adjourned to
his own particular den, where all the
trophies of his travels were collected.
Finally Indiana carried them off to
her apartments, leaving Thurston in
his den.  When they were all comfortably
installed in the boudoir, Indiana,
leaning on her mother's breast, looked
thoughtfully up in her face and then at
the others.  She could scarcely realize
that they were substantial creations.

"Indiana Stillwater," said Mrs. Bunker,
"the way you crawl to that woman
is very un-American."

"In England it's the custom for people
to pay great respect to their elders."

"That's a nice slap in the face for
us," remarked Mrs. Bunker.

"Grandma Chazy, you don't want
the deference due to age," answered
Indiana, propitiatingly.  "You won't
for many years, I hope.  Think of
treating ma and pa like that.  They
wouldn't like it a bit."

"No," said Mrs. Stillwater, "we're
satisfied as long as you love us.  But
don't let anyone else take our place."  She
pressed her lips to Indiana's soft
hair, crying silently.  Indiana
tightened her arms about her mother's
waist, unaware of the tears that were
falling on her yellow puffs.

"Well, then," said Mrs. Bunker,
"just put on your things and come and
have supper with us at the hotel.  All
the Americans in town will be there,
beside the English celebrities.  Come
along.  I'll show you the whole push."

"I'd love to go."

"We'll have a good time, if it is
Sunday night.  Well, what are you sitting
there for?  Get your things on."

"I must ask my husband," said Indiana,
slowly, the eager sparkle suddenly
dying in her eyes.

Mrs. Bunker sank down in the chair,
from which she had sprung in her
enthusiasm.  "Indiana Stillwater, I never
thought you would turn out such a
spiritless kind of a woman.  Of course
it's none of my business, but if you
start in this way, you'll lose your entire
individuality."

"It's not so, Grandma Chazy.  I do
just as I like.  I allow no one to
compel me."

"You're quite right to ask your husband,
and, if it's against his religious
views, you stay home and read the
Bible to his mother."  Mrs. Bunker
went to the mirror, arranging her hat,
as if the question had been settled.

"It's not so!" exclaimed Indiana,
rising and stamping her foot.  "You
don't understand the conditions of life
over here."

"It's the thing in London now, to
dine out on Sunday nights.  You can't
tell me, Indiana Stillwater."

"It may be the thing, but we don't
do it.  Must I tell you again I have
married into a very conservative family?"

"We're not good enough for you,
now," replied Mrs. Bunker, sarcastically.

"I'll always love my own people, but
I won't be blind to their faults.  We
lack culture and repose."

"You may be right, Indy," said
Mr. Stillwater, hitherto a silent
listener.  "But if you keep cultivating a
field of wheat right along, you'll cultivate
it till it doesn't produce anything.
They're running to seed fast here—and
we're still bearing strong.  Repose!
Let them have it.  Thank heaven, we
youngsters are always on our feet.
Now, mother!"  Mrs. Stillwater was
crying.  At the sight of her tears
Indiana capitulated.

"I'll come, mother," she said,
despairingly, throwing herself on her
knees beside her.

"Darling!" cried Mrs. Stillwater.
"Don't you think we ought to ask
Thurston?"

"I'll ask him, of course," said Indiana,
"but I'm sure he won't come."

"We'll manage without him," said
Mrs. Bunker.  "On second thoughts,
I think we'll send for you, Indiana."  She
looked significantly at the others.
"We'll send for her at eight o'clock."  They
nodded.  "That'll just give you
time to dress.  We've another surprise
in store for you."  They all laughed.

"Ah, don't tell me.  It's so nice to
look forward to something one don't
expect."

"Take off that dowdy thing," directed
Mrs. Bunker.  "Go back to your
trousseau."

"We turned you out better than
that," commented Stillwater, looking
her over.  Indiana pouted like a child,
teased.  Thurston emerged from his
den as they descended the stairs.  Lord
Stafford also joined them below in the
library.

"Thurston," asked Stillwater, taking
him aside, "has she broken out
yet?"  Thurston shook his head, laughing.

Stillwater took Indiana in his arms.

"Goodbye.  God bless you!"

Mrs. Bunker kissed her vehemently.

"I couldn't let you go," whispered
Mrs. Stillwater.  "If I wasn't sure I'd
see you to-night."

Indiana sank into a chair as they all
left the room, Thurston and Lord
Stafford accompanying them to the door.
Her thoughts were in a whirl.  Her
pride had been hurt at the idea her
family should think she was not utterly
a free agent, and that was one of the
main reasons why she had consented to
join them that night.  Then they
brought her old life back so forcibly.
If her relatives had suffered in
comparison with Thurston's, her present
life now suffered in comparison with
the old—its freedom, and lack of
obligation.  She realized now that she
had been truly queen of her own
territory.  She heard them all laughing and
talking below.  Gradually their voices
died away, the voices of her old life.
She felt a sense of loneliness.

It was early spring, when Jennings
made it a rule to light the candles later.
Everything in the room had faded into
the growing dusk.  The old objects so
easily blended with a waning light.
Indiana heard Thurston laughing heartily
with Lord Stafford, as they ascended
the stairs.

"All in the dark, sweetheart!"  He
touched the electric button of the lamp
on the table, revealing Indiana, buried
in one of the big chairs, gazing dismally
before her.  The smile died on his face.

"Oh, go on!  Don't mind me!"
exclaimed Indiana.  "Laugh at them!
Ridicule them!  Tell me you don't
want them to darken your doors again.
I'm ready for anything."

"Indiana!" exclaimed Thurston,
justly hurt at this unreasonable
outburst.  "How can you?  I wasn't
laughing in that way.  I find your
people very witty and amusing.  As for
separating you from them, I hope we
shall see as much of them as we
possibly can.  Grandma Chazy is a new
creation for us.  We simply revel in
her.  She'll make a sensation
wherever she goes.  I shouldn't wonder if
she would marry well and settle down
in England.  There now, the storm's
over."  He smoothed the hair back
from her forehead with a soothing
touch.  "Poor little thing, she's had a
shock.  I hate surprises myself.  Lie
down for an hour and rest.  Come,"
lifting her up from the chair, "I'll put
you on the sofa."

"No, no!" protested Indiana,
"there's no time.  I—I have promised
to go out."  He looked at her in
astonishment.  "The folks wouldn't take 'no'
for an answer," affecting not to notice
his surprise, "and naturally, they want
me with them as much as possible."

"Naturally!" said Thurston, coldly.
If she wished to go out with her family,
why had she not consulted him first, he
thought, instead of considering it
sufficient to merely apprise him of her
intention.

"I won't ask you to waste your night,"
she said, carelessly, endeavoring to make
it apparent that she was quite innocent
of any departure from the conventional
order of things.  He looked at her
again, in astonishment.  Why should
she assume a night spent with her was
wasted?  It was an evident fact he was
not wanted.  "But, you can call for
me," she wound up, airily.

"Where?"

"Oh, they've mapped out a programme,"
she answered, irrelevantly.
"Grandma Chazy knows what's to be
seen."  She turned to leave the room,
as though summarily dismissing the
subject.

"I am only your husband, it is true,
but I think I have a right to know, if
my wife goes out, where she is going."

Indiana paused half way to the door.
"I'm going to dine with them at the
Cecil, where they are stopping."  He
was silent.  She waited, in some suspense,
for a remark, her hand on the door.

"I am sorry to disappoint you—but I
cannot permit you to go," he said, at
length, slowly.  "It's not the place for
Lady Canning.  It may be all very well
for strangers—sight-seers—but London
is our home.  These places are resorts
for foreigners, professional women,
men-about-town, and others, who delight to
bask in the public eye.  I have another
reason.  I do not wish you to be seen
in public, until I have formally presented
you—as my wife."  He approached her
and removing her hand gently from the
handle of the door, led her back into
the room.  She went unwillingly, her
head drooping.  "Indiana," he put his
hand under her chin and lifted her face,
so that her eyes met his.  "I don't wish
to force you, but to convince you.
Admit it would be a very foolish and
inconsistent thing to do."

"Yes, but that's just why I want to
do it," she answered, wilfully deaf to
the note of appeal in his voice.

"You child!  Come now," he forced
her gently to lie down on the sofa.
"Quiet that eager little mind of yours,"
tucking her carefully in a rug.  "Shut
those restless American eyes and sleep
for a while.  Dream yourself into good
humor again."  He closed her eyes,
patting her cheek tenderly.

"Thurston, they've got a surprise for
me," she said, piteously.

"What, another!" he exclaimed.
"Your nerves won't stand any more
surprises to-night.  Now, in one hour,
I shall come in and awaken my sleeping
beauty with a kiss."  Indiana made a
little grimace and shut her eyes tightly.
He watched her for a moment.

"Asleep already," bending over her,
"or sulking—which?"

She flung the rug from her,
suddenly sitting up.  "Thurston, I want
to go.  Thurston, why can't I go?"

"Because you yourself have acknowledged
it would not be right," he answered,
coldly.  Her small, red lips
drooped plaintively, she coiled herself
up on the sofa in a disconsolate
attitude.  Thurston stood watching her.
The sad, little face staring at the fire,
stirred his sympathy.  This was the first
request he had ever refused.  He felt
an impulse to press her against his heart
and beg her not to grieve—to tell her
that he felt her disappointment far deeper
than she herself could have any idea of.
But pride prevented him.  He had
lately been chary in his demonstrations.
His nature, which at first had sung a
pæan over the mere fact that she was
his, rejoicing in the lavish display of its
love, gradually conscious of no hint of
response, only a tacit acceptance, had
crept back into its cloak of reserve.
He suffered from the repression,
becoming at times the victim of a terrible
discouragement—that sinking of the
heart, inevitable to the thought that one
has given one's very best in vain.  He
realized what a frail structure he had
builded—that beautiful fairy fabric of
spider's webs, illuminated with the
tints of the rainbow.  Standing,
watching Indiana, Thurston remembered the
day when she had promised to marry
him—that gray, soft, still evening in
autumn.  It had been like a tender
poem.  He had likened the little path
between the trees upon which they
walked, to the dim, narrow aisle of a
church, leading to the altar.  It had
led them to the altar, but he had failed
yet to realize the dream, the infinite
suggestion beyond.  He felt they were
still kneeling there.  He and the
church had done their part.  It needed
Indiana only to make the bond
complete.  He suffered in a great measure
for her sake alone.  Could she respect
her own womanhood as his wife when
she failed to love him, he asked
himself.  She, too, might be suffering,
without his knowledge.  The little
figure maintained its disconsolate position.
It was only a trivial matter, after
all, but he did not want her to harbor
the least resentment against him.

"Indiana," he said, tenderly, placing
his hand on her head, "do you remember
the day I asked you to be my wife?
Do you forget already the condition
upon which you accepted me?"

"What condition?" asked Indiana,
innocently.

"That I should not give in."

"Oh!" exclaimed Indiana, falling
back on the sofa.  If he brought up
that justification, there was no longer
any ground to argue upon.

"I have never in my life broken my
word once given.  This is our first
difference.  I must keep my promise to
you.  No matter how much I suffer, I
will not give in."  He tucked her in
the rug again, extinguished the lamp,
and left the room.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`An Escapade`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   An Escapade

.. vspace:: 2

Indiana, lying in the dark, tossed
restlessly.  Scattered scenes and
personages of her old life and the new,
floated through her mind, jumbled in a
rare confusion.  She counted and
multiplied to induce sleep.  Finally she
thought of the formula children repeat
when they play hide-and-seek—

   |  "'Ena, mino, mina, mo,
   |  Catch a nigger by the toe.
   |  If he hollers let him go.
   |  Ena, mino, mina, mo.
   |  You're it—I'm out!'"


"Out of everything," she added,
with a sob.  "Oh, I can't sleep!"  She
tossed the pillows about desperately,
feeling nervous and irritable, angry
with herself, angry with Thurston and
her family.  The room was suddenly
lit from the lamp on the centre-table.
Indiana's dazzled eyes saw a tall figure
standing before her.  "Glen!"

Jennings retreated with a chuckle of
delight.  Indiana threw her arms about
her old playmate's neck, and was on
the point of kissing him, but drew
suddenly back at the recollection that he
had been her lover as well as her comrade.

"I'll bet you forgot, for the moment,
you were married—now didn't you?"

Indiana nodded.  Tears were not
very far from her eyes.  He pressed
her hands, looking into her face.  He
felt both pain and joy—pain that she
was another's, and joy at beholding her
in the flesh once more, no matter
under what circumstances.

"So you were the surprise," said
Indiana, a little shyly.  He looked so
manly, so strikingly tall and handsome,
as he stood there in his evening
clothes.  His dark eyes gazed at her in
an unmistakably tender fashion.  "Just
as though I were not married at all,"
thought Indiana, with a sudden uprising
of wifely virtue.

"I was the surprise," answered
Glen, releasing her hands slowly.

"I was just trying to sleep, and,
thinking of the old days when we
played tag together and—"

"Yes," said Glen, eagerly.

"Oh, never mind," answered Indiana,
brushing the tears from her eyes.

"The old days," repeated Glen,
staring into the fire.

"They seem so far away, and it's
only a few months, Glen.  So much
has happened—I suppose that's the reason."

He looked at her intently.  There
was a wistful expression in her eyes.
She was paler and thinner, more
thoughtful.  He gathered his own
conclusions from her appearance, aided by
certain hints which the family had let
fall.  He knit his brows in a fierce scowl.

"What's the matter, Glen?"

"My old thoughts are working on
me again—that's what it is—your
mentioning the old days.  They were the
best after all, Indiana.  Why, people
are always raving over sunsets.  You
should have heard them on the steamer
coming over.  But once I saw a
sunset far off in an orchard in
Indiana—there's never been anything to
compare with it since—there never will
be—to the end of time."

"Sit down, Glen.  Tell me all about
yourself.  You've changed so much for
the better, I'm quite bewildered."

"It's worth crossing the ocean to
hear that—from you," said Glen, with
a superior air.  "But I won't sit down
here—the place chokes me.  I've
brought a hansom, and we'll jump in
and take a spin about, till it's time to
join the folks at dinner."

"I'm not going," said Indiana,
without meeting his eyes.  "My husband
won't let me."

"Your husband won't let you?  Poor
child—so it's come to this!"

Indiana's pride rose in arms.  "Don't
waste any sympathy!" she exclaimed,
her eyes flashing.  "I'm perfectly
happy, I assure you."

"Yes, you look it," said Glen,
skeptically.  "I understand it's a case of
jealousy.  He's trying to wean you
from your own people.  I suppose I
won't be allowed to see anything of
you either.  I'm glad they let me in
this time, to get one glimpse of you.
Next time it will be 'Not at home'
or 'Engaged.'  I'm very sorry you
couldn't come this one night.  It'll
spoil the evening for all of us, and I
had so much to tell you.  But I won't
keep you.  Good-bye."

"Glen!" cried Indiana, clenching
her hands and stamping her foot.  "How
can you act like that?  I'm no prisoner.
I can go if I want to—but I don't want to."

"That makes it worse than ever,"
replied Glen, seriously.  "We sympathize
with you, in the other case, but now
we must have the pride not to beg
when you turn upon us.  Good night!"

This was more than Indiana could
bear.  "Glen, I'll go!" she exclaimed,
desperately.

He came back slowly into the room,
his eyes shining with joy.  "Will you,
Indiana?"

"Just sit down and I'll slip into a
dress.  I shan't be long, Glen."

"Yes."

"We'll have a good time, altogether,
this one night."  Her resolve, once
taken, she threw scruples to the wind.
Glen, walking restlessly up and down
the room after she had gone to dress,
spied her photograph on a cabinet.
First looking suspiciously around him,
he took possession of it and kissed it
passionately.

"Poor little thing," he murmured,
gazing on the photograph, and seating
himself in a comfortable position, his
feet on the table.  "Now the first blaze
of glory is over, and you find—you're
in for life—what are you going to do,
little western bobolink, with your wings
clipped, and your little eyes peering
over the cruel ocean?  Oh, you'll never
complain—you're too proud."  He let
the photograph fall, and buried his face
in his hands.

Indiana rang for her maid, and
dressed in feverish haste.  She wished
to leave the house without coming in
contact again with Thurston.  Slipping
quietly down the stairs, she saw a light
in his den.  The door was not quite
closed, and she peeped through the
crack.  He was sitting at his table,
reading, in a patient attitude, his head
propped on his hand.  She passed the
door, then, moved by a sudden
impulse, went back and looked at him
again.  There was something which
appealed to her in the solitary figure
sitting there, in a pose so passive as to
almost suggest hopelessness.  She
noticed the touch of gray in his hair,
under the lamplight—that, too, appealed
to her.  She felt vaguely that his was
not the face of a happy man, and also,
in a vague sense, her conscience
reproached her for being responsible.
She remembered they had always been
together since their marriage.  Neither
had taken any pleasure apart.  She
would have liked to have kissed him
good-night, and gone with his sanction—but,
she told herself, that would be
impossible to gain.  With an involuntary
sigh she sped down to the library.
Glen was still sitting, his face buried in
his hands.  The photograph had fallen
on the floor.

"Here I am, Glen," throwing her
white wrap in his lap.  "It's not
necessary to ask you how I look.  I've
completely stunned you."  He looked at
her with worshipping eyes.  She had
donned an airy, diaphanous white
gown, and her cheeks were glowing,
her eyes sparkling with excitement.
"You've been looking at my new
photo.  Do you like it?"

"Oh, so-so," he answered, indifferently.

"Now I'm going to leave a message
for Thurston."  She sat down to the
table and drew some writing materials
towards her.  Then she gnawed the
end of the pen in some perplexity,
looking a little grave.

"You're afraid," said Glen.  "You're
sorry—you'd like to back out."

"Not at all," answered Indiana,
drawing herself up indignantly.  "I
know just what my husband will do.
He won't say a word to anyone—he'll
jump in a cab and follow me."

"And then—a family row."

"Not at all.  My husband is too high-bred
for any public display of feeling.
He'll look cold and proud, I'll quiver
my eyelids—and—he'll kiss me—that's
all."  She smiled triumphantly as she
scribbled a hasty note.

"I know," agreed Glen, with a sigh.
"You could soften anything—even stone."

"Do you know that my husband is
an H.F.R.G.S.?" sealing the note.

"Is he?  You quite astonish me."

"Now, what is it?  Of course you
don't know.  Honorary Fellow Royal
Geographical Society.  They want him
to lead an expedition to the North
Pole.  If I had said 'no,' he would have
gone.  It was a toss-up."

"What a shame he didn't go,"
remarked Glen, shaking his head
dolefully.  "What a loss to science!  Ha,
ha, ha, ha, ha!"  He laughed so heartily,
Indiana felt obliged to join him.
"How jolly I am!" he thought, bitterly.

"Oh, I'm so excited!" exclaimed
Indiana.  "I love uncertainty of any
kind."

"Women are born gamblers," observed
Glen, fastening her wrap under
her chin.  Jennings entered, in answer
to the bell.

"Jennings," said Indiana, with an
indifferent air, "there's—there's a note
on the table for—your master."

"Yes, yer little leddyship."

"Er—I shall be—"

"I hear someone coming downstairs,"
whispered Glen.  "Quick, or
Bluebeard will cut off our heads!"

"I feel like a bad boy, playing
truant," laughed Indiana.  "Scoot!"  They
ran, giggling quietly, into the
hall.  Jennings, with a horror-stricken
face, tottered to the window, pushed
aside the curtains hastily, and pressed
his face against the glass.

Lord Stafford, entering the library
then, saw him in this position and
heard the sound of wheels.  "Who's
driving off, Jennings?"

Jennings started.  "Her—her—little
leddyship."

Lord Stafford looked at him incredulously.
He had just been talking with
Thurston, and Indiana was not likely to
go out without him.  They always
remained at home on Sunday nights.
"Impossible!"

"Her little leddyship's gone out with
a gentleman from America," said Jennings.

A light broke on Lord Stafford.
"Oh, evidently young Masters," he
thought.  He sank into a chair by the
fire, pulling his moustache contemplatively.
"Thurston was apparently
unaware of the fact—something's up."

Thurston came into the library a
moment later.  "I thought you were
dining out to-night, Uncle Nelson."  He
rubbed his hands, holding them
over the fire.

Lord Stafford lit a cigarette, trying
to appear unconcerned.  "I shall be
off in a minute."

"I'm as hungry as a bear," said
Thurston, cheerily.  "I must go and
find Indiana.  I left her asleep here.
She is usually dressed and down by this
time."

"Er—Thurston," commenced Lord
Stafford.  But Thurston had left the
room before he could speak.  Jennings,
still standing near the window,
was a little, old figure turned into
stone.  "By George," muttered Lord
Stafford.  "A pretty mess, this."

"Indiana's not upstairs!" exclaimed
Thurston, when he entered again.
"She may be with my mother.  I did
not think of that."

"Her little leddyship's gone out,
sir," said Jennings, shrinking into the
shadow of the curtains.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Thurston,
loudly.  "I left her asleep here."  Lord
Stafford put his hand warningly
on his shoulder.

"Her little leddyship left a note,"
continued Jennings, peering over the
table.

Thurston instantly saw the little
white note lying among the books.
He seized and read it quickly.  His
first expression of incredulous surprise
faded away.  His face became impassive.

"Will I serve dinner at eight, sir?"

"Certainly," answered Thurston,
calmly crushing the note in his hand.

Lord Stafford looked at him
inquiringly, as Jennings left the room.

"She has gone with Glen Masters to
dine with her people—at the Cecil—and
asks me to fetch her," said Thurston, slowly.

"Then it's all right."  Lord Stafford
felt, in a measure, relieved.

"It's not all right, by any means,
Uncle Nelson," answered Thurston, in
the same repressed voice.  "My wife
has gone against my express wishes."

"Ah, by George!  Too bad!" exclaimed
Lord Stafford, sympathetically.
"You'll go and fetch her, of
course?"  Thurston failed to answer.  An ash
dropped loudly on the hearth.

"No," said Thurston, finally.

"Shall I go and fetch her?"

"No."  The frozen monosyllable
dropped from his lips like an icicle.

"What are you going to do?"

"I—I am going to wait up for my
wife—like a good, obedient husband,"
he said, bitterly, dropping into a chair.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Late Visitors`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   Late Visitors

.. vspace:: 2

The great bronze clock on the
mantel struck eleven.  Thurston
paced the library restlessly.  His
mother had retired, as usual, a little
after ten.  He had thought it best to
keep from her the fact of Indiana's
escapade; excusing her absence from
dinner on the score of a nervous
headache, due to the surprise she had
received that afternoon.  He had
impressed upon his mother the necessity
of perfect rest and quiet, for that night,
at least.  Lady Canning had promised
not to disturb her, confiding to
Thurston that she had anticipated his wife
would suffer bad effects from such a
"cruel shock," as she expressed it.
He wished to save Indiana from the
blame his mother would be sure to
attach to her, if she knew the truth.  He
could not brook the idea that his wife
should fall one iota from her esteem.
And he also wished his mother's belief
in his happiness to remain undisturbed.
She would have suffered intense anxiety,
on his account, if she had suspected
there was any flaw in his marital
relations.  He hoped that some blessed
future period would see his union, with
Indiana, established on the solid rock of
mutual love.  Until then his unhappiness
was his own secret, one which he
guarded jealously.  The inference his
household might take from Indiana's
action, was a source of great mortification
to him.  He went to the window
and looked out.  The thought rankled
in him that if she had felt the slightest
respect or love, she could not have
treated his wishes with such contempt.
When he turned back into the room,
Jennings was standing at the door,
looking at him wistfully.

"Well, what is it?" he asked, in a
quick, sharp tone.

"I'll keep up the fire, sir, it's a bit
sharp out to-night," answered Jennings,
apologetically.  Thurston continued to
pace the floor, while Jennings piled fresh
logs on the fire, shaking his head and
muttering, as he was sometimes in the
habit of doing.  Suddenly there was an
imperative knock upon the front door.
"Ah, here she is, now, sir!" exclaimed
Jennings, struggling to his feet.  "Here's
her little leddyship."  He hurried from
the room, chuckling with delight.
Thurston's eyes were illumined with a
sudden flash of joy and he rushed to the
door to meet his wife.  But the
movement was an involuntary one.  On
second thought he sat down to the
table, took up a book and endeavored
to appear disinterested.  "Why," he
thought, remembering anew the facts of
her absence, "should he act as though
she had done nothing wrong.  That in
itself would be a condonation of her
offence."  He turned his head slowly,
as Jennings came back to the room,
followed hurriedly by Stillwater,
holding his overcoat and opera hat.
Thurston rose, his expression of cold and
assumed indifference changing to one
of deep disappointment and anger.

"Where's my wife—where is she?"
he demanded, with an uncontrollable
burst of passion.

"She's all right, my boy, she's all
right," answered Stillwater, in a
conciliating tone, beneath which there was
a trace of embarrassment.  "She's at
the hotel, with mother and Grandma
Chazy.  And I came to bring you back
to finish up the evening with us."

"Thank you, very much," said
Thurston, sinking into his chair.

"Now, you're mad.  You won't be
so foolish as to make a fuss about
nothing."  Thurston looked at him, in
incomprehending surprise.

"Mr. Stillwater, do you know that
my wife left the house against my
express wish and command?  Drove away
from my door on Sunday evening with
a gentleman not her husband."

"Yes, I know all about it, my boy,"
answered Stillwater.  "But it was only
Glen—just the same as her own
brother."

"My household does not know that.
The appearance of such a proceeding is
not favorable."

"I know—but it's Indiana's way of
doing things," said Stillwater, rather
impatiently.  "Just because you said
she shouldn't, she would.  Now, if you
handled her a little better—you'll
excuse me, but I've known her longer
than you—"

"You may have known her longer,
but I doubt if you understand her
better.  As to handling her, as you call it,
I will never stoop to bribe or cajole her
into doing her duty."

"That's all right," continued
Stillwater.  He was there on an errand of
conciliation, and, though his son-in-law's
argument seemed absurdly precise and
conventional, and he assured himself that
he did not approve of any such cut-and-dried
policy, he was determined to carry
out his intention.  "I approve of the
stand you are taking, but commence after
we're gone.  It seems rather mean to
spoil mother's holiday, doesn't it?  Now
come along, and Indy will receive you
with open arms.  It'll be all right, I
promise you."

Thurston felt irritated by his
father-in-law's free-and-easy good nature, his
light way of disposing of a matter
which struck the core of all that was
sacred to him.

"I am very sorry to mar your pleasure,"
he answered, firmly and coldly.
"This is the first time my wife has
openly defied my wishes.  It must be
the last.  If I give in, it will be the
beginning of endless repetitions.  And I
shall fall in line behind her, like a good
American husband."

Stillwater took a slight exception to
these last words, uttered in a bitterly
sarcastic tone.  "It's not such a
terrible thing to be an American
husband," he said, in an offended voice.
"I'm one—I don't look very bad on it,
do I?"

Thurston smiled.  "My dear father-in-law,
if I were an American, I would
consider it the acme of bliss to be in
the leading-strings of my pretty wife.
But I'm an Englishman and—"

"You're not built that way," interrupted
Stillwater, with an explosion of
mirth.  Thurston shrugged his
shoulders and joined in the laugh.  "Come
along, Thurston," said Stillwater,
feeling more at his ease.  "Come along.
She's only a mite.  She's done wrong,
she knows it, and she's mighty
uncomfortable."  Thurston's spirits rose at
this.  Then she was not utterly without
heart or conscience, where he was
concerned.  Stillwater watched his face,
keeping his hand on his shoulder.
"Now come, and when you get her
home, read her the riot act."

Thurston shook his head.  "I'm
very sorry."

Stillwater's expression became
serious.  He had at first intentionally
made light of the matter.  Now, as
Thurston's resolution remained
unshaken, things commenced to assume
a graver aspect.  "Now, look here,
Thurston, we won't have her staying
over night with us.  The place for a
young wife is under her husband's roof."

"Then use your authority to convince
her of that fact."

"Do you think I haven't done so,
already?" asked Stillwater, now intensely
grave.  "Do you think I came here
alone to-night without doing all I could
to get her to come with me?  She
never told us, until the evening was half
over, that you forbade her to go—on
account of Sunday, and your mother, an
old-fashioned kind of a woman.  Well,
we wanted to clear her out then and
there—we begged, and we prayed, and
we bullied her, and she gave it back to
us, as good as she got it."  He laughed
at the remembrance of the scene in
their rooms at the hotel.  Thurston
listened in anxious suspense.  "And
Grandma Chazy became so mad she
nearly slapped her.  But do you think
she'd budge?  Not a foot."

Thurston went over and sat down on
the lounge near the fire, his head on
his hand, in a hopeless attitude.  It
was becoming worse and worse.  She
persisted in her defiance and contempt
of him, showing it openly to her
family.  She had no compunction for what
she had done—none.  Before Stillwater's
arrival, he had allowed himself
to think of her coming to him, asking
prettily for forgiveness, or even one
look from her deep-blue eyes would
have been enough.  He would have
taken her then, so gladly, so thankfully,
to his heart.  If he had reproached
her, it would have been tenderly—the
chiding which is in itself love.  If she
had made one step towards him, he
would have met her with three.  But
she would give him no chance to show
her how freely, how generously, he
could forgive for the asking.  It is easy
for love to ask forgiveness of love.
But when there is none—this secret
wound pricked him sorely.  His head
sank lower on his hand.

"Come on, come on," said Stillwater,
persuasively.  "She don't mean
anything.  And I'll tell you something—she's
afraid to come home.  I know
that little, uneasy laugh of hers—with
her eyes full of tears.  She's done
wrong, she's sorry, and she wants you
to come and make it up.  Won't you
come, Thurston—won't you?"  He
bent down, looking into the younger
man's face.  There was a pathetic
appeal in his voice.

Thurston shook his head.  "When I
think of you three old people, helpless
against that slip of a girl—it appalls me."

Stillwater took his hat and coat from
the chair where he had laid them.
"Then I'll tell you what it is—she
won't come home until you do come
after her.  That's her ultimatum."

Thurston rose.  "And this is mine,"
he answered, sternly.  "My mother's
house closes at twelve o'clock, and if
she does not return at that time, the
doors will be closed for the night."

"I'll tell her," said Stillwater, with
an indescribable expression.  "I warn
you," pausing at the door, "you're
making a very hard time for yourself.
Good night."

Thurston stood motionless, thinking
deeply, for some moments after Stillwater
left the room.  Then he rang for
Jennings.  The old man responded,
with an anxious expression.
"Jennings, Lady Canning may not return
to-night," said Thurston, in a measured
tone.  "She will probably remain
with her people.  Naturally, she wants
to see as much of them as possible."

"Yes, yer lordship."

"Lock up at the usual hour and go
to bed.  If she is not here by that
time, she will not return."

"Yes, yer lordship."  After he left
the room, as he was crossing the hall,
he heard a slow, familiar step, a soft
rustle of silk, on the stairs.  He looked
up with a sudden throb of fear, and
saw Lady Canning descending.  He
knew she thought his little mistress was
ill in bed with a headache, and the
contingency that she might come home
at any moment appalled him.  He
hurried back to the library.  "Milady, sir,
milady!" he ejaculated.  "She's
coming down the stairs."

"Heavens," thought Thurston, "I
thought she was safe for the night.
Don't look so anxious, Jennings."

When Lady Canning entered, he
greeted her with a bright smile,
taking both her hands in his.  Jennings
pushed a chair up to the fire.

"Mother, this is unusual.  What
keeps you up at this hour?"

"I've had so much to think of, since
this afternoon.  I wasn't at all sleepy."

She looked at Thurston with
wide-awake, luminous eyes, as he placed a
footstool under her feet.  "How is
Indiana?  Is she sleeping?"

"Yes," answered Thurston.

"I'm glad of that, poor little thing!
Such a cruel surprise!  The excitement
was too much for her."

"Yes, the excitement," repeated
Thurston, mechanically.

Jennings left the room, after he had
brushed some imaginary ashes from
the hearth and arranged the curtains.
Thurston showed no sign of the strain
under which he was suffering, as he
talked gently with his mother.  Once
in a while his eyes sought the clock,
and his ears, preternaturally sharpened
by anxiety, heard an imaginary hansom,
bearing Indiana homeward.  Their
conversation reverted to his wife's people.

"I don't object to the father and
mother," said Lady Canning.  "We
have one great point of sympathy—our
love for Indiana.  But the
grandmother—Thurston, is she quite well
balanced?"

Thurston laughed.  "She's a shining
light, mother—a prominent
member of women's clubs."  Lady
Canning shuddered.  "A very shrewd,
clever woman."

"It's wonderful how people differ in
their conception of things," said Lady
Canning, with a sigh.  "If she were
my mother, I should consider it necessary
for her to have a personal attendant.
What do you think she said to
me?  That 'I ought to make more out
of myself,' and if I would come over to
the hotel, she'd fix me up."  Lady
Canning looked at her son with a
shocked expression.  He laughed
involuntarily, and she finally joined him,
seeing the amusing side of Mrs. Bunker's
remark.  "Well, we'll get along
with them, won't we?" continued Lady
Canning, taking Thurston's hand
affectionately in hers.  "They have given
us our Indiana.  I'm going to make a
great effort for her sake.  I'm going to
present her myself at the first
drawing-room of the season."

"Mother!" exclaimed Thurston, in surprise.

"Yes, I'm coming out of my retirement,
after twenty years, and we'll make
a sensation, I promise you."  She patted
his hand, feeling that the grateful love
in his eyes was ample reward for all
this resolution had cost her.  "She's
brightened my life so much since she
came.  I'm beginning to take an interest
in things, for the first time since I
lost your dear father."

"I'm very glad of that, very glad,
mother—and happy."

"Now, may I creep in and kiss her
good-night, when I go upstairs?" asked
Lady Canning, rising.

"I wouldn't, mother," answered
Thurston, quietly.

"I won't wake her," assured Lady Canning.

"I think you had better not,
mother," said Thurston, in the same
quiet tone.

"Very well, just as you say.  I can't
blame you, even if you are
over-anxious.  Give her my love and a
kiss."  She paused at the door,
looking thoughtfully in his face.  "We
must love her very much, Thurston.
And if there are any faults, we must
deal gently with them, because—she is
very young, and from what I saw of
her people, she could have had no
bringing up whatever."

It seemed strange to hear his mother
pleading for Indiana just at that
moment.  "Good-night, mother."  She
put her arms about his neck and kissed
him.  He threw himself in a chair, after
she left the room, feeling deeply
depressed.  "If there are any faults, we
must deal gently with them."  His
mother's words always carried their
own weight.  Her unconscious
intercession had touched his heart.  He was
ready to do everything, to make every
extenuation, but he felt a dull
premonition that Indiana would ask for none.
Neither would she care.  This was the
worst.  His hidden wound throbbed
painfully.

Jennings crept into the room.  When
he saw Thurston, sitting with his head
bowed upon his hands, his face became
an image of distress.  He looked at the
clock, then back again to the hopeless
figure in the chair.  Thurston raised
his head suddenly.  "What are you
prowling about for, Jennings?"

"I—I just looked in to see after that
danged fire," said Jennings, in confusion,
tottering to the fire and poking
the logs.

Thurston smiled.  "There's no sign
of it going out, Jennings.  Find a more
plausible excuse."

"Won't you have a cold bite, sir?"
asked Jennings, piteously.  "You never
touched the dinner."

Thurston shook his head, opening a book.

"A glass of wine, sir?"

"Nothing, Jennings.  Don't bother,
there's a good fellow—and don't come
crawling in and out continually.  I
can't read; it disturbs me."

"Very well, sir," in a heart-broken
voice.  He went to the door, then
tottered back again.  "Another log on,
sir, if you're not going to bed?  But
perhaps you are going to bed?"

"No, I shall sit up and read."  The
page before him was a blur.  It lacked
but a few minutes of twelve.  If she
would only come, no matter how—whether
stormy, sulking or weeping—if
she would only come.  Even at the
very last moment, to show him that she
had, at least, some compunction—that
she realized, in even a slight measure,
what was owing him!

After putting another log on the
fire, Jennings opened the window and
looked out.  Then he closed it, with a
sigh, and stood in the shadow of the
draperies watching Thurston, with his
heart in his eyes.  The clock
commenced to strike.  Thurston, sitting
with his head over his book, ceased to
hope.  Every silvery chime fell on his
head with a dull weight of pain.  What
had she not left him to infer from the
fact of her not coming?  Contempt,
indifference, even fear.  At the last
stroke of twelve he raised his head and
looked over at Jennings.  The old man
was the image of misery.  Answering
the command in Thurston's eyes, he
slowly took a bunch of keys from his
pocket.  "I'll only put up the chain,
yer lordship, in case—"  He looked
imploringly at Thurston.

"Lock it fast," answered Thurston.
"Take the key out as usual, and go at
once to bed."

The old man made a silent motion of
assent, and tottered to the door.
Suddenly there was a loud knock.

"Ah, here she is at last!" cried
Jennings.  "Here's her little leddyship!"

Thurston sprang to his feet with an
involuntary exclamation of joy.  "My
wife, my Indiana," he thought.  "She
has come at the very last moment—a
sudden impulse to do right.  Thank
heaven!"

Jennings entered slowly, followed by
Glen Masters.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Awakening`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   Awakening.

.. vspace:: 2

"This is rather a late visit, Lord
Canning," began Glen, in a
slightly embarrassed manner.  He also
refrained from offering his hand.  "But
I—I left the folks about ten o'clock,
and I—I've been driving about the city
trying to collect my thoughts."

Thurston silently offered him a chair,
suffering the reaction of his sudden
access of joy.

"Indiana told me you generally sit
up after she retires, so I waited late to
find you alone and have it out with you."

Thurston met Glen's intense gaze
with one of polite surprise.  "Oh,
indeed!  I was not aware there was any
subject to be thrashed out between you
and me."

"Indiana's unhappy.  I can't see
it—it—it—breaks my heart."

"You are a very young man, sir,"
answered Thurston, coldly, "and
closely connected with my wife and her
family, otherwise I should consider this
a piece of impertinence."

"I don't mean it in that way.  I'm
square and above board, and I hate
anything clandestine.  This is a case of
a husband and wife, and another man
who loves her.  I'm the other man.
Now kick me out."

"I should assuredly do so, if you
were an Englishman.  But in your
case I will only beg you to explain
your meaning—I am always willing to
learn."  He felt obliged to take Glen
seriously, yet he was conscious of
feeling amused, in spite of his suffering.

"Er—have a cigarette?" asked Glen,
offering his case.  Though he had been
braced with confidence when he
entered, he felt now very much
embarrassed and at a disadvantage.
"Indiana won't be likely to come in, will
she?  I hope she's safe in bed."

"No, it's not likely," answered
Thurston, evasively, taking a cigarette,
which he omitted to light.

"I want to keep her out of it, if I
can," said Glen.  He leaned back in
his chair, smoking.  "I'm not much
of a talker, and this helps me."  He
puffed furiously.  "But I'm a great
thinker.  I've lived alone a considerable
part of my life, and my way of
doing things may not be considered
strictly constitutional.  However, that
don't say I'm wrong."

"Not at all," Thurston assured him.

"Do you believe that the pursuit of
happiness is the highest aim of life?"
asked Glen, in a very important manner.

"That depends whose happiness a
man is pursuing.  You are evidently
after mine."

"Ha, ha!  Very good.  But I mean, is
making others happy the highest aim?"

"Possibly.  My highest aim at present
is to see my wife perfectly happy."

"Ah, that's the point.  And, as we
both want the same thing, there will be
no difficulty in joining forces and
accomplishing it."

"I fail to see how you can help to
those results," remarked Thurston, far
from being infected with the same
friendly spirit of co-operation.

"That's what I came to tell you,"
said Glen, boyishly.  "I'm the only
one who really understands Indiana.  I
know how to get at her true feelings
better than all her folks put
together."  Thurston half smiled at this
assertion, which frankly ignored him—the
husband.  Glen puffed his cigarette,
thoughtfully, watching the rings of
smoke, as they widened and disappeared.
"I saw the end of it from the
first," he continued, in a superior tone.
"Like all young girls, Indy wanted
something new.  I'm not blaming
her—but—she's not happy.  She never
can be happy, away from her own
home and people."

"Are you here as my wife's ambassador?"
asked Thurston, icily.

"Well, no, not exactly," responded
Glen, uneasily.  "But she didn't
object, when I told her I was going to
have it out with you."

"It will be interesting to know what
your intentions are against me."

"I—I want to tell you the thing
don't work—I don't see how you could
expect it.  I want, in a perfectly open
and straightforward way, to discuss the
means to the desired end—her happiness."

Thurston smiled wearily.  "This
would all be very farcical if there were
not a very serious question for me at the
root of it, and which my wife's conduct
to-night has made me realize very
keenly.  I suppose she was discussing
me, during your rather unconventional
hansom-ride this evening?"

"Yes, she was—and—er—not favorably.
Now, what do you propose to do?"

Thurston rose, answering, very
sternly and coldly.  "Prove to my own
satisfaction if it is true, that my wife is
not, and never can be, happy in her
new home.  I shall not ask her,
because she does not know herself what is
good for her.  I am egotistical enough
to think that I understand her better
than her own family—and even better
than you.  And I am convinced that a
few years away from her own country,
and her own people, will convert the
spoilt child into a splendid,
self-controlled woman.  If I am mistaken, I
assure you, the way of retreat shall be
made very easy for her."

"Er—how long will it take to discover
all this—a lifetime?"

"About twelve hours."

Glen looked at him thoughtfully,
feeling that, owing to his jealousy, he
had always been unjustly prejudiced
against Indiana's husband.  There was
a consciousness of right, a dignity in
Thurston's bearing, which impressed
him.  And beneath the calm, cold
manner in which he had spoken, Glen
recognized an undercurrent of pain.
It dawned on him, suddenly, that the
other's composure was only repression,
and the man was suffering.  He also
appreciated the unfailing courtesy with
which he had been treated.

"Lord Canning," he said, rising, "I
don't feel near as confident, as I did
when I came in.  I was sure my
platform was a just and equitable one, but
since I've been watching you and listening,
I begin to feel a little ashamed of myself."

"No occasion for it, I'm sure,"
Thurston replied, kindly.

"You're a fine fellow, and if Indiana's
not happy with you, it's not your fault.
It's the fault of your nationality—that's
the only weak point I see in you."

"An Englishman and his nationality
cannot be so easily divorced as a
husband and wife," said Thurston,
significantly.

Glen held out his hand.  "Lord
Canning, although it's against my own
interests, I—I wish you luck."

"Thank you, sir.  One moment,
please," touching the bell, "the house
is already closed for the night."  They
waited silently until Jennings appeared.

"Show this gentleman out, Jennings.
Then lock the door securely."

"Yes, yer lordship."

"Good night," said Glen.  He
stepped back to the fire, where
Thurston was standing, adding,
confidentially, "You won't see me again.  I
shall keep out of the way.  I won't
move a step in this matter until I am
quite convinced the case is hopeless
with you.  Good night."

When he reached the street, he
found the cabman asleep on the box.
He touched him on the shoulder.

"Where to, sir?"

"Anywhere—only drive," slipping
a sovereign in his hand.  The cabman
whipped up his horse furiously.  He
had been following similar instructions
since ten o'clock.  It was now past
midnight, and the handsome young
American still persisted in his strange
whim.  He refrained, however, from
fatiguing his brain with futile questions,
realizing the fallacy of such a
proceeding, when a sovereign reposed
securely in his pocket.

Glen leaned comfortably back, lighting
a cigarette.  His dead hopes had
risen that day from their ashes, and,
like beautiful, deceiving phantoms, had
melted into air.  His equilibrium, the
fortitude it had cost him so much to
gain, had been shaken to their foundations
by the thought that his cherished
dream might still materialize.  He saw
Thurston's white, suffering face as he
calmly said he would make the way of
retreat very easy for Indiana.  Well,
he was worthy of her love.  That was,
at least, one solace.  And he would
win it in time.  It was his right.  With
a sigh for his transient vision of
happiness, the beautiful Fata Morgana which
had charmed his eyes for such a brief
space, Glen gathered all his moral
forces to banish Indiana from his mind.
His manhood was firmly building itself
on the foundation of these accumulated
efforts.

Thurston, still sitting up in the
library, vainly attempted to read.  It
seemed as though his life were falling
about him in ruins.  He was mortified,
humiliated, and incensed at Indiana.
If she had no love for him, she could,
at least, have shown more respect for
the sacred tie which bound them, and
should have refrained from discussing
their relations and publishing the fact
of her unhappiness.

Jennings crept in.  He gave a sly
glance at Thurston, who, with his head
bent over his book, appeared to be
reading.  Then he opened the window
softly and looked out.  Hearing
nothing, he closed it, but still waited,
listening, in the shadow of the curtains.
He felt it incumbent on him to share
his master's vigil.  Although he would
not presume to express an opinion to
Thurston, he had a firm belief that his
little mistress would come home that
night.  Jennings' head swayed, and he
dozed, his head against the window.
Thurston, sitting with his head in his
hands, was only dimly alive to his
surroundings, his consciousness dulled,
not by drowsiness, but a species of
stupor.  A knock sounded, very low
and timid—then again, louder, more
decided.  Thurston started.  Jennings,
awakened suddenly, rubbed his eyes,
wondering if he had heard aright.
The knock was repeated, doubly and
imperatively.  Jennings hurried to the
door, but Thurston, with a quick
stride, brought his hand heavily down
on the old man's shoulder.

"It's her little leddyship, sir.  It's
her—"

The words died on his lips as he met
his master's determined gaze.

"Draw those curtains," directed
Thurston, in a low, set voice.

Jennings obeyed.  There was
another knock.  Thurston extinguished
the lights.  "She's at the door!" cried
Jennings, desperately.  "I must let—I—"

"I have said my doors will not be
opened to-night—and I mean to keep
my word.  If you make one move to
undo what I have done, in spite of the
affection I have for you, I shall dismiss
you on the spot."

The old man's head sank on his
breast.  "That I should live to see
this night," he sobbed.  "I love
her—little—leddyship—and she—out
there!"  He slowly took the keys from his
pocket and laid them on the table.

Thurston listened intently.  "She
has gone back to the cab," he thought.
"She is speaking to the cabby."  He
heard the door of the cab slammed and
the sound of receding wheels.  "She
has returned to the hotel.  A little
longer, and I might have—"  He put
his hand to his head, which was
burning.  "Jennings, I'll try and get an
hour's sleep."

"Shall I help you, sir?"

"No, thank you.  I shall probably
come down again."  He mounted the
stairs heavily to his room, and threw
himself, dressed as he was, upon the
lounge.  It was only to live, again and
again, through the scene which had
been enacted below.  He heard the
knock—first faint, then louder, still
louder.  He saw Jennings break down,
sobbing, then take the keys from his
pocket and lay them on the table.  He
listened intently.  He heard the door of
the cab slam.  He heard it drive away—over
his heart.  She had forced him to
this.  And he had kept his word to her.
He had not given in.  She would never
know, never care to know, perhaps, what
it had cost him.  He tossed restlessly.

Jennings still waited below in the
library.  Thurston had said he would
come down again.  There was no
light but the fire, near which the old
man stood, a little, heart-broken figure.
Suddenly the sound of low sobbing
fell on his ears.  He lifted his head
quickly, listening like a watchdog.
Then he went to the door and looked
into the hall.  Hearing nothing, he
approached the fire again.  The faint
sobbing continued.  Jennings shivered
with a slight sensation of fear.  The
sound was uncanny in the dark room,
at that hour.  Again he listened,
every nerve on the alert.  "It's
outside," he suddenly concluded.  He
went to the window, opened it and
peered out.  The night was not utterly
black, but lit faintly by the rays of a
watery moon.  Jennings distinguished
a white object below on the steps.

"Jennings!" called a familiar voice.

"God!  Her little leddyship—on the
steps—in the cold!"

"Is it you, Jennings?"

"Yes, yer little leddyship," he
whispered down, his body half out the
window.  "I can't open the door, yer
leddyship.  Hush! don't call out—wait!"  He
tottered to the hall, in fear
of Thurston, and listened.  Hearing
nothing, he tottered back, trembling
with excitement.  "Yer little leddyship,
there's those little iron bars—can't
you find them?  Put your hand
through the ivy underneath.  Ah,
that's it.  Now, if you could climb
up, you're such a light, little body—I'd
swing you easy enough over the
balcony.  That's right.  Be careful.  Ah,
my heart stopped beating.  Now, hold
on with one hand and put up the other
as high as you can."  He drew her up
gradually; she jumped lightly over the
balcony and into the room.  The fire
was burning brightly.  She crouched
before it, shivering, and warming her hands.

"Oh, I'm so cold!" she cried.
"I'm chilled to the bone!"

"Hush," whispered Jennings, in
mortal fear.  "Speak lower, yer little
leddyship, if you don't want to ruin me."

"What's the meaning of this?" exclaimed
Indiana.  "Where's my husband?"

"Asleep."

"Asleep!  You heard me, why didn't
you open the door?"

"The master took the key from me."

Indiana rose from the fire with a
horror-stricken face.  "He heard me,
then—he knew I was there?"

"You won't tell him I helped you in,
yer little leddyship?" asked Jennings,
clasping and unclasping his hands, in a
nervous, frightened fashion.  "He said
he'd dismiss me on the spot—and he
always keeps his word."

"Yes, he keeps his word," repeated
Indiana, in a dazed tone, leaning
against the table.  "I won't tell—and
I'm in now, thanks to you.  It's a
terrible thing to be locked out on a
cold night."  She shivered, folding her
arms across her bare neck and shoulders.
She had left her wrap on the
step, in order to be disencumbered as
she climbed up to the window.

"Jennings," called Thurston's voice.
"Are you in here?  I thought I heard
someone moving."

"Go," whispered Indiana.  Jennings
slipped quietly from the room.

Thurston, feeling his way to the
table, pressed the electric button of the
lamp, then started slightly at beholding
Indiana.

She faced him with clenched hands,
panting with rage and excitement.
"You locked me out," she said, hysterically.

"And you came in by the window,"
answered Thurston, coldly and calmly,
giving a comprehensive glance at the
open window.

"You heard me knock, and you left
me on the doorstep."

"You had due warning."

"Yes, you sent me a nice message
with my father—to make me look
ridiculous in the eyes of my own family.
I waited purposely till after one o'clock
to prove to them that I was no servant,
compelled to come home at a stated
hour, or have the door shut in my
face."  Her fingers tore nervously at
her gloves.  "You are my husband—not
my jailer, I am your wife—not your
prisoner, to be let out on parole.  I
give you full liberty of action—if you
do not give me the same, I shall take
it.  How dare you leave your wife out
on the doorstep, like an outcast?—how
dare you?"

"I dare do whatever is for your good."

"My good!" she repeated, with a
cold laugh.  "I am a child, then, to be
lectured into silence, to be terrorized
into submission.  Ah, you do not know
me!  I will not live with you—I will
never forgive you—until you come on
your knees to me—on your knees!"

"I have not asked forgiveness.  It is
for you to do that.  My wife must not
outrage my sense of dignity and
propriety.  You have hurt and wounded
me beyond pardon.  The sacredness of
my home relations has been violated
and coarsely discussed.  I am ashamed
to raise my head before my own servants.
And to make it, at last,
unbearable—your old sweetheart calls me to
account for your unhappiness.  It is
too galling—too humiliating!"

.. _`"I—I—what have I said? I didn't mean it."`:

.. figure:: images/img-435.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "I—I—what have I said? I didn't mean it."

   "I—I—what have I said? I didn't mean it."

"Ah," exclaimed Indiana, "Glen
did come, then?"

"At your invitation," said Thurston,
quickly.

"What of it?  He would not have
locked me out—insulted me.  Oh, I'm
sorry I ever married you!"  Thurston
gave a suppressed cry of pain.  "I
mean it.  I have never known a harsh
word in my life.  You—to treat me
like this!  I won't stand it, I tell
you!"  Losing all control, she took up a
paper-cutter and snapped it in pieces in her
rage.  "I hate you—standing there
like ice!  I hate—"  Thurston looked
down into her face with an expression
of horror and rushed from the room,
slamming the door.  "I—I—what have
I said?  I didn't mean it, Thurston,"
murmured Indiana, with a sudden
revulsion of feeling.  She stretched out
her hands piteously, helpless and
groping, like a frightened child.
"Thurston, I didn't mean it.  There was a
rush of red before my eyes—it blinded
me."  She sank on her knees with a
feeling of terror at the remembrance.
"Thurston, I'm afraid," she sobbed,
shudderingly.  "Don't leave me here
with myself."  She struggled to her
feet, trembling from head to foot.
"Thurston, I'm sorry—forgive me—I
love you—I—"  She fell blindly
against the door, then sank to the
ground, shaking with sobs.

When the storm passed, her exhaustion
was so great she felt powerless to mount
the stairs to her room, and lay there on
the floor, beside the door, throughout
the night.  Though stiff with cold, her
moral distress would scarcely permit
her to notice this physical discomfort.
She was clutched tightly in the grasp
of a terrible dread.  That this sudden
tidal wave of love had rushed over her
heart too late.  And if this proved true,
she felt she would no longer have the
courage to live.  The fact had so
suddenly awakened in her consciousness,
as a flower might spring at once into
full and perfect bloom, that her
husband's love alone gave life significance.
She fell, at intervals, from pure
exhaustion, into a short, troubled sleep,
awakening always with a remembrance of
Thurston's horrified face as he rushed
from the room, closing the door, as
though he would shut her forever out
of his life.  When daylight came, she
rose with an effort and threw herself
upon the lounge.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"And as he Wove, he heard Singing"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   "And as he Wove he heard Singing."

.. vspace:: 2

Jennings, entering the library
at an early hour that morning,
started when he saw his little
mistress lying there, still in her gown
of the night before, one arm hanging
listlessly down, her face buried in the
pillows.  The light was still burning in
the lamp on the table.

"Yer little leddyship," said Jennings,
softly, bending over her.  She
stirred and raised her head.

"I wasn't asleep, Jennings," she
answered, in a pathetic voice.  She looked
like a little, pale wraith, in her white,
crushed, tulle gown, a fragment of a
cloud blown by chance into the old,
gloomy room.

"You left this on the doorstep, yer
little leddyship."  He held her long,
white wrap over his arm.

"Did I?  Oh, so I did!"  She took
it and wrapped it about her shoulders,
shivering.  "I've been here all night
long, Jennings," piteously, "and I'm
so cold!"

"Poor bairn!" exclaimed Jennings,
indignantly.  He hurried from the room,
then returned in a moment, and busied
himself making a fire, muttering to
himself—"Poor bairn, it's a shame, a
shame!"  Indiana watched his operations
with interest, as she crouched, shivering,
on the lounge.  "Now, yer little
leddyship."  He wheeled a large
armchair before the fire, and she nestled
into it, holding her hands to the flame.

"Pile on the logs, Jennings, pile on
the logs.  That's right—a big, big
blaze.  Oh, I shall never be warm
again.  Who's that?" starting up, as
some one knocked at the door.

"No one will come in, yer little
leddyship," said Jennings, soothingly.
"I ordered some tea and toast for you."

"Tea and toast," repeated Indiana,
blissfully.  "Tea and toast."

Jennings took the tray and closed the
door, then drew a small tea-table up to
the fire.  She watched him eagerly, as
he poured out the tea.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, Jennings,"
she said, gratefully, taking the
cup from his shaking hand.  "Oh,
that's good!  I've never tasted such
delicious tea.  Is it a new kind?"

Jennings shook his head, handing
her the toast.  "Yer little leddyship
must be very hungry."

"Jennings, I can trust you—I know
you won't say anything."

"No, yer little leddyship."

"Did I do so very wrong, did I, that
I should be treated like this?"  She
caught her breath with a sob, the tears
rising to her eyes.

"It was cruel, cruel, yer little
leddyship," answered Jennings, in a
heart-broken voice.  "There, there—have
another cup of tea—that'll comfort yer."

"Do the servants all like me, Jennings?"
asked Indiana, eating the sugar
out of her tea, like a child.

"They'd go through fire and water
for yer little leddyship, every mother's
soul of them," answered Jennings,
enthusiastically.  "And my lady—she's
taken on a new lease of life."

Indiana smiled brightly through her
tears.  "How long have you really
been with the family, Jennings?"

"Sixty years, yer little leddyship,"
said Jennings, turning out the light
and arranging the books on the table.
"My father was gamekeeper for his
lordship's grandfather, and when I was
ten years old I was taken into the house."

"Sixty years," repeated Indiana,
dipping her toast in the tea and eating it
with relish.  "And have you never
thought of bettering yourself, Jennings?"

Jennings drew himself up proudly.
"Impossible to do better.  It's a great
satisfaction to look back on my life,
and feel I have always done my duty
faithfully."

"I suppose it is a great pleasure to
serve those whom we respect," said
Indiana, looking at him with interest.

"It's more than pleasure, yer little
leddyship.  To serve the right master,
it's pupil and teacher, friend and
friend."

The handle of the door turned slowly.
Indiana, who had been coiled up, like
a kitten, in the big armchair, put down
her feet, which had been tucked under
her, and straightened herself stiffly.  In
her nervousness she almost dropped
her cup, and she looked piteously at
Jennings, as though for help.  It could
be no other than Thurston, as the
servants would have knocked, and no
one else rose so early.

She was right.  When he entered
and saw the picture by the fire—Indiana,
sitting in her white wrap, with the
tea-tray before her, and Jennings
standing near—he paused for a moment.
Jennings took the tray and left the
room.  Thurston felt neither curious
nor interested to know why she had
stayed there all night.  He himself had
not closed his eyes.  He had
summoned all his strength to make a
certain resolution, one which he
considered imperative, after his wife's
passionate avowal of hate and regret.
All else—things which at another time
he would have accounted strange—seemed
trivial and unimportant.  He
had relinquished all hope of winning
his wife's love.  He saw himself
weaving the gray web of his life until the
end.  Indiana gave one swift glance
at his face as he approached the fire,
then quickly averted her eyes.

"I have weighed existing circumstances
as fairly as possible, and have
concluded that our case is hopeless,"
began Thurston, without preliminaries.
Indiana, her hands tightly clasped, her
eyes gazing straight before her,
listened with strained attention.  "I have
tried to awaken you, gradually, to the
personal responsibility of your new
position.  My confidence was strong in
my own power to win a love that, to
me, was worth waiting for—worth the
winning."  He covered his eyes with
his hand, then went on, with an effort.
"My courage has gone.  The dread of
a repetition of last night's
frenzy—degrading to us both—between husband
and wife—horrible!"  His agitation
would not permit him to continue.
He turned from her and paced the
room.  Finally, he stopped and looked
at her motionless figure.  "Have you
anything to say?"

Her lips trembled, she shook her
head, trying to restrain an hysterical
outburst of sobs.  Then she rose to go
to her room.

"One moment," said Thurston,
sternly.  "I do not wish your maid to
see you like this.  You must help
yourself this morning, and—I shall
breakfast with my mother.  When you are
quite composed and ready to receive
her, she will come to you—as she
thinks you retired early last night with
a headache."

"Ah, she doesn't know!" exclaimed
Indiana.  "I'm glad of that—very glad."

"Your people were talking of going
to Paris in a week or so—you will go
with them—on a pleasure trip."  Indiana,
leaning against the table, lifted her
eyes wonderingly to his.  He met her
gaze, proudly and relentlessly.  "You
will go with them to America—on a
pleasure trip.  I will break it to my
mother, slowly—that you are not
coming back."

A deathlike faintness passed over
Indiana as she listened to his calm,
passionless voice, pronouncing sentence
upon her.  She could not, at that
moment, utter a word of pleading or
remonstrance.  He seemed like a rock
of relentless justice, against which she
might hurl herself, only to be dashed
in pieces.

"You see, I have made it very easy
for you to drop the shackles of the
tyrant and regain your lost and coveted
freedom," he added, bitterly.  She
grasped the edge of the table
desperately with her small hands.  "If you
had only loved me," cried Thurston,
despairingly, "it might have been
different!  But how could I expect it?
You have never been taught to love—to
sacrifice for love.  Only to be
loved—to demand sacrifices from
others."  Gathering all her strength, Indiana
moved to the door.  He held it open
for her, and she passed him with
averted eyes, looking dazed and hopeless.
"Indiana!" he cried, involuntarily, as
she disappeared down the long hall.
By a great effort he prevented himself
from rushing after her.  Sinking down
in a chair, he buried his face in his
hands.  He had spoken the final words
between them—there was no retraction
now.  But so utterly had the serene
and smiling little witch taken possession
of his heart, he felt, that in exorcising
her he was plucking it bodily from his
breast.  Only the necessity of appearing
composed before his mother rescued
him from succumbing utterly to his
despair.

Indiana had not heard Thurston's
smothered cry.  She climbed the stairs
laboriously, clinging to the banisters.
There seemed to be iron weights
hanging to her limbs.  But this was the
result of lying for so many hours on the
hard floor, in the cold library.
Consciousness, too, seemed fading away
from her.  She only wished to retain it
until she reached her room; then, she
felt, she would be quite satisfied to part
with it forever.  Thurston's last words
echoed in her ears, "You have never
been taught to love—to sacrifice for
love—only to be loved—to demand
sacrifices from others."  That was what
Jennings meant when he said that he
looked back with satisfaction on his
life, knowing he had served a loved
master faithfully.  Even Jennings
realized the spirit of love, while—reaching
her bed at last, she pushed back
the covers and coiled herself in its
soft depths.  Thoughts floated mistily
in her brain.  "I have missed many
things—to love, to serve, to sacrifice.
Perhaps it was not all my fault—not
all."  She lapsed into unconsciousness,
but it was the unconsciousness of
which nature makes use to soothe
exhausted and tired humanity—sleep.

At noon she awoke of her own
accord, wonderfully refreshed morally
and physically.  Things assumed a new
aspect.  The very knowledge of her
love gave her happiness.  One
supreme fact remained, in spite of all that
had passed—she loved her husband,
and he her.  It was impossible, she
argued, that her conduct of last night
could have utterly killed a love as deep
as she knew his to be.  The only
barrier between them was his wounded
love and pride, one which she thought
she could easily break with her two
small hands.

Jennings knocked, and whispered
that Mrs. Bunker and her father and
mother were below.  He had told
them she was asleep.  Did she wish to
give any message?

"Don't say anything.  I'll be down
in a little while, Jennings."  She
dismissed him with a reassuring smile and
a nod.

"Her little leddyship looked so
smiling—maybe it's all come right again,"
thought Jennings, in delight, as he
descended the stairs.

"So they're all there," mused
Indiana.  "I shall act as if nothing
is the matter."  She continued the
process of dressing, without a maid.
A cold bath brought the bloom back
to her cheeks.  Her eyes were very
bright, yet tender.  She donned an
airy, rose-colored morning-gown,
dotted here and there with black velvet
bows.  Standing at her dressing-table,
putting another black velvet bow in the
fluffy, yellow puffs of her hair, a
sudden misgiving assailed her—that her
power to win him back might not be as
strong as she imagined.  She shivered
at the remembrance of his stern,
implacable face, when he entered the
library that morning.  What if he would
not retract his words, remaining strong
in his determination that they should
part?  Her face looked piteously back
at her from the glass.  "Well, I, too,
am strong—very strong," she thought,
bravely.  "I am his wife—and I love
him."  She bent forward and kissed
her face in the mirror.  "Good luck
to us, Indiana," she said, with a laugh,
followed by a rush of tears.  "We'll
fight for our happiness—won't we?"

The family were sitting below in the
library with Thurston and Lord Stafford.
No one, so far, had ventured a
remark or asked a question relating to
the night before.

Mrs. Bunker, finally, tired of discussing
matters which did not interest her,
and anxious to know something relating
to the subject uppermost in all
their minds, went to the window,
pretending that she wished to see if her
hansom was still waiting, well aware
Lord Stafford would follow her.

"You look charming this morning,
Mrs. Bunker," remarked Lord Stafford,
gallantly joining her, as she
expected, in the window embrasure.

"So Indiana is sleeping it off,"
observed Mrs. Bunker, confidentially.

"I am sure I don't know," answered
Lord Stafford, twirling his moustache.

"You were with Thurston when we came?"

"Yes," said Lord Stafford, indifferently.

"Well, he told you?" queried Mrs. Bunker,
in an exasperated tone.

"Thurston said nothing, and, of
course, I couldn't ask."

"Well, you English are the closest-mouthed
people.  They've had a row.
Haven't you any curiosity to know how
it ended?"

"I'm burning to find out," answered
Lord Stafford, calmly.

"There's nothing burning about
you—except your cigar," said Mrs. Bunker,
contemptuously, "and that's going out."

"So it is—thank you."

"Let me hold the match, your hand
is trembling, mine is as firm as a rock."

"Ah, I'm getting on—but you have
discovered the secret of eternal youth."

"We had a time getting her home,"
said Mrs. Bunker, in a low voice,
ignoring this last remark.  "Do you
think her mother and father had
any influence with her?  Not a bit.
Grandma Chazy did it.  I sent the
poor, deluded parents to bed, and I
put on a wrapper and fussed about my
room, while she sat by herself in the
parlor, working herself up into a rage about
her husband's tyranny, and rushing to
the window, every time a cab passed,
to see if he was coming.  Well, I grew
tired of this, so I went to bed.  When
she had worn herself out, she put her
head into my room.  'Grandma Chazy,
where shall I sleep?'  'On the sofa,
dear.  Throw your cloak over you.
I've only a single bed, or I would offer
you half.'  She slammed the door, in a
rage.  About a half hour later,
'Grandma Chazy, I guess I'll go home.'  'Is
that so, dear?  Going—good night.'  And
I fell asleep, apparently."

"Mrs. Bunker," remarked Lord
Stafford, "if I ever marry, it shan't be
an American."

"Oh yes, you will, because you say
you won't."

"Oh, then I shan't marry at all—that's
the safest way."

"The most dangerous," assured Mrs. Bunker,
mockingly.  "A man is never
safe from marriage until he is married."

"Ha, ha, ha!  Very good.  Mrs. Bunker,
you are really the liveliest woman
I have ever met."

"Well, I'm not going to waste my
day here," said Mrs. Bunker,
decidedly.  "I want to see the shops and
take Indiana along.  Thurston,"
advancing into the room, "I'm dying to
see Indiana."

Thurston looked at her gravely.

"My dear Mrs. Bunker, I have plans
for the future, which it is best you
should know before you see Indiana."

Mr. and Mrs. Stillwater looked anxious,
but Mrs. Bunker took his words lightly.

"Don't make any plans, Thurston.
And don't look so serious.  You've
made up your mind to something—I
can see that—but she'll upset it all in a
jiffy.  You don't know Indiana."

"No," answered Thurston, without
relaxing his gravity of expression, "and
I never shall.  Mr. Stillwater, your
daughter is very anxious to go with
you to Paris—and I have consented."

"Thurston, how good of you to let
her!" cried Mrs. Stillwater, innocently.
"It is the only thing to complete my
happiness."

"I don't approve of it," said Mrs. Bunker.

"I am about making arrangements
for a long trip—for scientific
purposes," continued Thurston, in a slow,
mechanical voice.  "I will be away
from England for some time, and I
think it advisable your daughter should
go home with you—until my mission is
over."

Mr. Stillwater folded his arms,
looking keenly into Thurston's eyes.
"Well, of course, nothing would suit
us better; but, my dear fellow—is it
good for a young married couple to
separate so soon?"

"No, it is not good."

"Then must you go?" asked Mr. Stillwater.

Thurston raised his eyes, meeting
Stillwater's piercing glance, steadily.
"I must go."

Mrs. Stillwater was so overcome with
joy at the prospect of having Indiana
at home once more, she failed to see
anything strange in the arrangement.
"Of course, we're sorry, Thurston, but
if you're obliged to go away, it's quite
natural you should want to leave
Indiana with us."

"I, for one, don't like it," added
Stillwater, decidedly.

"How long do you expect to be
away?" inquired Mrs. Stillwater.

"For several months—perhaps
forever."  His voice broke.  He turned
from them all and leaned his forehead
against the mantel, gazing with
hopeless eyes into the fire.  The others
looked at one another in apprehensive
silence.

"Good morning, everybody," said a
gay, sweet voice.  They all looked, in
relieved surprise, at Indiana, smiling in
answer to her greeting.  Her cheeks
were as rosy as her gown.  Her eyes
seemed to laugh with happiness.
Thurston stared at her, aghast at this
apparent heartlessness.  "Her eyes
have not looked so happy since I
married her," he thought.  "It's the
prospect of freedom.  My resolution was
well taken—I'm glad, for her sake.
What a charming little face—like a
cherub.  Ah, if she had only loved me!"

Indiana went to Lord Stafford, with
outstretched hands.  "Dear Uncle
Gerald, you want to kiss me good-morning,
don't you?  Well, you shall."  She
put up her mouth to be kissed.
Then she flitted airily to Mr. Stillwater,
put her arms about his neck and
nestled to his breast.  "You dear old
pop, I love you so!"  She rubbed her
face against his.  "I was naughty last
night, wasn't I?  Don't tell anybody.
You forgive me, don't you?  There!"  She
kissed him a number of times, and
then floated out of his arms, a
rose-colored cloud, over to her mother.
"You old goosie, you were afraid I
wouldn't come home.  Why didn't
you take me by the shoulders and push
me out?  But you couldn't be harsh
with your little Indy, your baby, your
only one.  I love you so!"  Mrs. Stillwater
pressed her joyfully to her breast,
murmuring caressing words, and kissing
her hair.  Finally, releasing herself,
Indiana looked at Mrs. Bunker,
undecided how she should approach
her.  She had been severely scolded
by that lady the night before.

Mrs. Bunker frowned at her, then
smiled.  "You little monkey," she
said, then shook her finger warningly.
Indiana answered by a good-natured
grimace, then she went to Thurston.

"Good morning, Thurston," she
said, after a swift glance, demurely
offering her cheek.  Thurston hesitated.
"Ah, here's dear Lady Canning," continued
Indiana, artfully, still standing in
an expectant position.  Thurston bent
down quickly and touched his lips to
her cheek.

"I have been so worried about this
child," said Lady Canning, taking
Indiana's outstretched hands, when she
had greeted the others very graciously.
"I wanted to see you last night, dear,
but Thurston wouldn't let me.  Are you
sure you feel quite well again?"  She
seated herself, drawing Indiana to her
side and looking anxiously in her face.

"Splendid," replied Indiana, sinking
down on her knees and putting her
arm about Lady Canning's waist.  "It
was a bad spell—while it lasted, but
when it passes off I always feel better.
I won't have another for a long time—I
hope never."  She peeped slyly
under her eyelashes at Thurston.  "A
bad spell is good for something—it
makes me realize how much everybody
loves me, and how much I love
everybody—and I do love you, dear Lady
Canning."

"Darling!" murmured Lady Canning,
quite overcome, pressing Indiana's
head to her breast.

"There now, who can resist Indiana,"
said Mrs. Stillwater.  "Darling,
your husband says you are going to
Paris with us."

"Am I?" asked Indiana, in a surprised
voice.  She turned to Lady Canning.
"I want you to scold Thurston,
dear.  He's too good.  He's given in,
because they're dying for me to go to
Paris with them.  But I wouldn't think
of such a thing.  I wouldn't leave
him—or you, dear Lady Canning."

"Oh, Indy!" exclaimed Mrs. Stillwater,
in a hurt and jealous tone.

"Indiana," said Stillwater, watching
her face, "Thurston says you can home
with us, if you like, while he's on his
trip."

"What trip?" asked Indiana, quickly.

"Is it possible you have not given up
that idea, Thurston?" questioned Lady
Canning, severely.  She turned
apologetically to Mrs. Stillwater.  "He always
had an insane desire to go to the North
Pole, but I thought marriage had cured
him of it.  Indiana, put your foot down
on that idea, once and for all."

"I put my foot down!" exclaimed
Indiana.  "Oh dear no—he's the
master.  But let us hope he will think
better of it."  She folded her hands
severely, bearing with the highest degree
of equanimity the astonished looks of
her family.

Thurston, who at first could scarcely
give credence to what he heard,
concluded she was playing the hypocrite in
order to win sympathy for herself, and
at the same time divert it from him,
putting him in the character of a
heartless husband.

"That little monkey's playing for
something," thought Mrs. Bunker,
"and she'll win her game, as sure as
I'm her grandmother.  Well, Indiana,
it's settled, then, that you're not going
to Paris with us."

"Grandma Chazy, I'm a married
woman," answered Indiana, with an
offended air, "I can't be running about
like a young girl."  Lady Canning
nodded approvingly.

"I must get out of this," exclaimed
Mrs. Bunker, desperately.  "I feel
choked for air.  We're going to do
some shopping.  Indiana, do you want
to come?"

"Well, considering Indiana was so
ill, I think it advisable for her to
remain quietly at home to-day," said
Lady Canning.  "But I should be very
pleased to have you all dine with us
this evening."

Indiana heard Lady Canning with a
sensation of relief.  She was suffering a
tension of suspense.  And she felt that
to go out with her family and keep
up this semblance of light-heartedness
would have been an unendurable strain.

"There, what did I tell you?"
remarked Mrs. Bunker to Thurston,
when they were on the point of leaving.
"Where are your plans now?"  He
made no answer, standing, determined
and pale, by the mantel, and following
Indiana's every move as she flitted
from one to the other, kissing them
good-bye.  "Good morning, Lady
Canning," said Mrs. Bunker.  "I wish
I had your complexion.  Yes, I do."

"Come early," pleaded Indiana,
clinging to her mother, "and we'll have a
good, long talk before dinner, my
dearest mother—and—and—after
to-day we'll spend all our time together."

"I think it's a shame you can't go
with us.  You're perfectly well?"

"No, Lady Canning's right—I have
a headache.  I was excited last
night—at the hotel."

"Your color's so bright—perhaps
you're feverish," observed Mrs. Stillwater,
anxiously.  "Indy, is it all right
between you and Thurston?"

"Yes—mother—it's all right."  Mrs. Stillwater
looked at her with an anxious
expression.  But Indiana met her gaze
hopefully.  "Don't worry, mother,"
she said.  "I love Thurston, and he
loves me—so it's all right, isn't it?"

"Yes, my darling," sighed Mrs. Stillwater,
greatly relieved.

"Even if—if things don't go as they
should sometimes," said Indiana,
wistfully, "they come right after a
while—don't they—when people really love
each other?"

"Nothing matters, so long as you
love each other," Mrs. Stillwater
assured her, with the wisdom of her long
matrimonial experience.

Indiana watched them driving off,
from the window—her mother and
father in one hansom, Mrs. Bunker
and Lord Stafford in another.  The
latter had manifested a desire to go
shopping.  He thought seriously of
joining the party on their Parisian trip.

"Thurston," asked Lady Canning,
in a very serious voice, "is there
anything wrong between you and your
wife?"  Indiana, at the window,
listened with every nerve.

"Nothing, mother," answered Thurston,
purposely refraining from one
glance at the little figure standing in
the shadow of the curtains.

"Then what has driven you to this
sudden resolve?  How could you think
of doing such a cruel thing?"

"I mean to do it, mother."

Lady Canning looked at her son with
very displeased eyes.  "Thurston, you
are developing an exceedingly bad
temper.  You—you have never before
acted in such an inconsistent,
inconsiderate manner.  And with such a sweet
wife.  You don't deserve her."

"Mother, don't scold him," said
Indiana, pleadingly.  Thurston cast on
her an indescribable look.

Jennings appeared then, and announced
that the carriage was waiting
to take Lady Canning for her morning
drive.  She sat in displeased silence,
until her maid brought her bonnet and
cloak.  Before she left the room, she
turned severely to Thurston.  "I do
do not wish to see you again until you
tell me you have abandoned this fool-hardy,
heartless idea, for good and all."  She
took Indiana in her arms.  "My
darling, forgive him, for my sake."

"I will, dear Lady Canning," said
Indiana, angelically.  "I—it's very
weak, I know, but I couldn't be angry
with him—no matter what he did."  Thurston
stared at her, aghast at such
hypocrisy.  Indiana led Lady Canning
out into the hall.  "Don't worry," she
whispered, as Jennings held the door
open for her to pass to the carriage.
"It will be all right, I'll manage
him."  When she returned to the library,
Thurston was staring into the fire.
She approached quietly, and he raised
his eyes, to see her standing meekly
before him, her hands clasped in a
childish fashion.

"You have played your part well,"
he said, bitterly.

Indiana raised her eyes supplicatingly,
then dropped them again.  "I
wasn't acting," she said, innocently.

"It's well that you can be so light-hearted,
when I am suffering tortures,"
he continued, with an involuntary burst
of grief and bitterness.

"No, no, I was acting—but I felt the
part.  I do love everybody, and I want
to be good again and make up."

"Cease playing the spoilt child," said
Thurston, wearily.  "Last night's
performance can never be repeated under
my roof—never shall be.  You can tell
your own story.  Paint me the brutal
husband—the tyrant.  I shall not
contradict you.  I am resolved upon one
thing—to leave England."  He stared
hopelessly into the fire again, leaning
his forehead on the mantel.

"I suppose it's no use—asking
you—to—forgive me," she said, watching
him sharply.  He turned quickly, and
she dropped her eyes.  "If—if there
won't be a repetition," she continued,
her lips quivering like those of a child
on the verge of tears.

"You cannot change your nature,"
he replied, coldly, not allowing himself
to believe in the sincerity of this
contrition.

.. _`"I will have love to help me."`:

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   :alt: "I will have love to help me."

   "I will have love to help me."

"No, and that's why you're very
wrong in being so hard with me.  I
was good, wasn't I?  For three months
and then, when the folks rushed
down on me, like a river breaking a
dam, I broke out—that's all."  She
raised her arms, with a long, despairing
sigh.  "Thurston, if you will go
away, may I stay with your mother?"

"Indiana, you don't know how I
suffer—you cannot.  As long as all the
love is on my side, my wishes will be
commands to you; my plans for your
welfare and happiness—domination.
There should be no such question
between a man and wife who love each
other.  It could not have ended otherwise.
A union without the sacred seal
of love—is cursed."  He went from
her to the door, terribly agitated,
wishing they could part finally, then and
there, in order to spare himself the
further torture of looking at
Indiana with the thought that he had
renounced her.

"Thurston, you'll shake hands with
me—won't you?" she asked, imploringly,
a look of terror dawning in
her eyes.  He extended his hand,
with averted gaze.  Indiana grasped
it quickly, then held it for dear life.
"You shall listen to me," she pleaded,
in a voice vibrating with intense
emotion, her breast heaving, her eyes
dilating, until they looked almost black
under the yellow hair.  "I won't let you
go until you've heard it.  All my life
I've queened it over people, delighting
to feel my own power—to make the
poor things who loved me bend to my
will.  Last night I saw the horror in
your face when you turned from
me—leaving me alone with my
uncontrolled, undisciplined nature.
Thurston, how could you expect me to be
different?  It wouldn't be natural if I
were.  I wanted to queen it over my
husband—to be put up on a pedestal
and worshipped.  I thought it was
enough if I let him love me—but I
never knew it was better to love than
to be loved, to serve than to be
served."  She looked into his face with
piteous eyes, and said, in a low,
frightened voice, "Thurston, take my two
hands—hold them fast—while I step
down from my throne—and then, when
we stand together, side by side, I can
whisper in your ear—I never could up
there—that I love you."

"Indiana, for God's sake, don't play
with me again!" he cried, passionately.

She drew his head down to her and
kissed him.  "Thurston, husband,"
she murmured, in a low, wondering
voice, "I love you better than myself."

"Indiana!"  He pressed her to his
heart, with the feeling that they were
on holy ground, even standing at the
altar, and the sacred seal had just been
set to their union.

Indiana raised her head, the tears
trembling on her lashes.  "I'll never
break out again."

"Yes, you will, but next time I will
have love to help me.  Indiana, look at
me—look at me.  I cannot realize
it—my wife loves me!  Do you remember
one day, in the Adirondacks, out on
the lake, at that weird place called the
Devil's Pulpit?  I think—yes, it was
the first day I spent with you—you
wanted a story, and I gave you a part
of my inmost life—do you remember?"

"Yes, I remember—how clearly I
remember.  The great, black rock
hanging over us; the blue mountains
in the distance; your voice, telling me
of the weaver—"

"Indiana, his dream has come true—at
last.  'And the web, transformed
into a gleaming fabric of light,
gladdened the soul of the weaver.'"

Indiana drew a little space away,
quoting his own words, with uplifted
hands, "'And as he wove he heard
singing, a choir of beautiful, jubilant
voices.'"

Thurston looked into her eyes, then
held out his arms.  "I hear them, Indiana!"

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   THE END.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   The Invaders

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   By JOHN LLOYD.

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   12mo; cloth; illustrated.  $1.50.

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The story is one of ranch life and of the
troubles with the so-called cattle-thieves,
which eventuated in
one of the most dramatic incidents of the
ever-dramatic West—the famous "Rustler War."

The cattlemen alleged that their fight
was one against
"Rustlers"; their opponents contended
that they were but honest homesteaders,
whose only crime was that of fencing in their
possessions, thereby destroying the open
range.  Owen Wister's great story, "The
Virginian," gives the cattlemen's side of the
controversy; "The Invaders" is written from
the opposing viewpoint.

Into this stirring history, the hero, John
Thorpe, a tenderfoot, is precipitated, and it
is his part in the struggle that furnishes the
thread of the story.  The love plot
introduced early in the tale enlivens the story
and sustains the reader's interest throughout.



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   Fanny Lambert

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   By HENRY DEVERE STACPOOLE.

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   Author of "The Crimson Azaleas," "The
   Blue Lagoon," etc., etc.

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   12mo; cloth.  $1.50.

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The two chief figures in this story are
Fanny Lambert and
her father, two entirely unconventional
characters, delightfully simple and
unworldly.  The book is full of irresistably
humorous touches, irresponsible fun
being, in fact, its
characteristic feature.  The lesser figures, down to the
merest thumbnail sketches, are all incisively drawn.



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   For Charles the Rover

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   By MAY WYNNE.

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   12mo, cloth $1.50

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Author of "Henry of Navarre," etc., etc.

A rattling good story of love and intrigue in good old
Ireland in the days and for the cause of
Charles the Rover.

   |  "Of all the days that's in the year
   |  The tenth of June I love most dear,
   |  When sweet white roses do appear
   |    For sake of Charles the Rover.

   |  "Our noble Ormond, he is drest,
   |  A rose is glancing at his breast;
   |  His famous hounds have doffed his crest,
   |    White roses deck them over."

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   \R. \F. FENNO & CO., 18 East 17th St., N.Y.

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