A Girl Of The Limberlost, by Gene Stratton Porter (page 8)

“Maybe it is,” admitted Elnora “to others; but it isn’t very funny to me. And it won’t be to Philip, or to mother.”

That was very true. Mrs. Comstock had been slightly prepared for stringent action of some kind, by what Elnora had said. The mother instantly had guessed where the girl would go, but nothing was said to Philip. That would have been to invalidate Elnora’s test in the beginning, and Mrs. Comstock knew her child well enough to know that she never would marry Philip unless she felt it right that she should. The only way was to find out, and Elnora had gone to seek the information. There was nothing to do but wait until she came back, and her mother was not in the least uneasy but that the girl would return brave and self-reliant, as always.

Philip Ammon hurried back to the Limberlost, strong in the hope that now he might take Elnora into his arms and receive her promise to become his wife. His first shock of disappointment came when he found her gone. In talking with Mrs. Comstock he learned that Edith Carr had made an opportunity to speak with Elnora alone. He hastened down the road to meet her, coming back alone, an agitated man. Then search revealed the notes. His read:

DEAR PHILIP:

I find that I am never going to be able to answer your question of this afternoon fairly to all of us, when you are with me. So I am going away a few weeks to think over matters alone. I shall not tell you, or even mother, where I am going, but I shall be safe, well cared for, and happy. Please go back home and live among your friends, just as you always have done, and on or before the first of September, I will write you where I am, and what I have decided. Please do not blame Edith Carr for this, and do not avoid her. I hope you will call on her and be friends. I think she is very sorry, and covets your friendship at least. Until September, then, as ever,

ELNORA.

Mrs. Comstock’s note was much the same. Philip was ill with disappointment. In the arbour he laid his head on the table, among the implements of Elnora’s loved work, and gulped down dry sobs he could not restrain. Mrs. Comstock never had liked him so well. Her hand involuntarily crept toward his dark head, then she drew back. Elnora would not want her to do anything whatever to influence him.

“What am I going to do to convince Edith Carr that I do not love her, and Elnora that I am hers?” he demanded.

“I guess you have to figure that out yourself,” said Mrs. Comstock. “I’d be glad to help you if I could, but it seems to be up to you.”

Philip sat a long time in silence. “Well, I have decided!” he said abruptly. “Are you perfectly sure Elnora had plenty of money and a safe place to go?”

“Absolutely!” answered Mrs. Comstock. “She has been taking care of herself ever since she was born, and she always has come out all right, so far; I’ll stake all I’m worth on it, that she always will. I don’t know where she is, but I’m not going to worry about her safety.”

“I can’t help worrying!” cried Philip. “I can think of fifty things that may happen to her when she thinks she is safe. This is distracting! First, I am going to run up to see my father. Then, I’ll let you know what we have decided. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Nothing!” said Mrs. Comstock.

But the desire to do something for him was so strong with her she scarcely could keep her lips closed or her hands quiet. She longed to tell him what Edith Carr had said, how it had affected Elnora, and to comfort him as she felt she could. But loyalty to the girl held her. If Elnora truly felt that she could not decide until Edith Carr was convinced, then Edith Carr would have to yield or triumph. It rested with Philip. So Mrs. Comstock kept silent, while Philip took the night limited, a bitterly disappointed man.

By noon the next day he was in his father’s offices. They had a long conference, but did not arrive at much until the elder Ammon suggested sending for Polly. Anything that might have happened could be explained after Polly had told of the private conference between Edith and Elnora.

“Talk about lovely woman!” cried Philip Ammon. “One would think that after such a dose as Edith gave me, she would be satisfied to let me go my way, but no! Not caring for me enough herself to save me from public disgrace, she must now pursue me to keep any other woman from loving me. I call that too much! I am going to see her, and I want you to go with me, father.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Ammon, “I will go.”

When Edith Carr came into her reception-room that afternoon, gowned for conquest, she expected only Philip, and him penitent. She came hurrying toward him, smiling, radiant, ready to use every allurement she possessed, and paused in dismay when she saw his cold face and his father. “Why, Phil!” she cried. “When did you come home?”

“I am not at home,” answered Philip. “I merely ran up to see my father on business, and to inquire of you what it was you said to Miss Comstock yesterday that caused her to disappear before I could return to the Limberlost.”

“Miss Comstock disappear! Impossible!” cried Edith Carr. “Where could she go?”

“I thought perhaps you could answer that, since it was through you that she went.”

“Phil, I haven’t the faintest idea where she is,” said the girl gently.

“But you know perfectly why she went! Kindly tell me that.”

“Let me see you alone, and I will.”

“Here and now, or not at all.”

“Phil!”

“What did you say to the girl I love?”

Then Edith Carr stretched out her arms.

“Phil, I am the girl you love!” she cried. “All your life you have loved me. Surely it cannot be all gone in a few weeks of misunderstanding. I was jealous of her! I did not want you to leave me an instant that night for any other girl living. That was the moth I was representing. Every one knew it! I wanted you to bring it to me. When you did not, I knew instantly it had been for her that you worked last summer, she who suggested my dress, she who had power to take you from me, when I wanted you most. The thought drove me mad, and I said and did those insane things. Phil, I beg your pardon! I ask your forgiveness. Yesterday she said that you had told her of me at once. She vowed both of you had been true to me and Phil, I couldn’t look into her eyes and not see that it was the truth. Oh, Phil, if you understood how I have suffered you would forgive me. Phil, I never knew how much I cared for you! I will do anything–anything!”

“Then tell me what you said to Elnora yesterday that drove her, alone and friendless, into the night, heaven knows where!”

“You have no thought for any one save her?”

“Yes,” said Philip. “I have. Because I once loved you, and believed in you, my heart aches for you. I will gladly forgive anything you ask. I will do anything you want, except to resume our former relations. That is impossible. It is hopeless and useless to ask it.”

“You truly mean that!”

“Yes.”

“Then find out from her what I said!”

“Come, father,” said Philip, rising.

“You were going to show Miss Comstock’s letter to Edith!” suggested Mr. Ammon.

“I have not the slightest interest in Miss Comstock’s letter,” said Edith Carr.

“You are not even interested in the fact that she says you are not responsible for her going, and that I am to call on you and be friends with you?”

“That is interesting, indeed!” sneered Miss Carr.

She took the letter, read and returned it.

“She has done what she could for my cause, it seems,” she said coldly. “How very generous of her! Do you propose calling out Pinkertons and instituting a general search?”

“No,” replied Philip. “I simply propose to go back to the Limberlost and live with her mother, until Elnora becomes convinced that I am not courting you, and never shall be. Then, perhaps, she will come home to us. Good-bye. Good luck to you always!”

CHAPTER XXIV

WHEREIN EDITH CARR WAGES A BATTLE,
AND HART HENDERSON STANDS GUARD

Many people looked, a few followed, when Edith Carr slowly came down the main street of Mackinac, pausing here and there to note the glow of colour in one small booth after another, overflowing with gay curios. That street of packed white sand, winding with the curves of the shore, outlined with brilliant shops, and thronged with laughing, bare-headed people in outing costumes was a picturesque and fascinating sight. Thousands annually made long journeys and paid exorbitant prices to take part in that pageant.

As Edith Carr passed, she was the most distinguished figure of the old street. Her clinging black gown was sufficiently elaborate for a dinner dress. On her head was a large, wide, drooping-brimmed black hat, with immense floating black plumes, while on the brim, and among the laces on her breast glowed velvety, deep red roses. Some way these made up for the lack of colour in her cheeks and lips, and while her eyes seemed unnaturally bright, to a close observer they appeared weary. Despite the effort she made to move lightly she was very tired, and dragged her heavy feet with an effort.

She turned at the little street leading to the dock, and went to meet the big lake steamer ploughing up the Straits from Chicago. Past the landing place, on to the very end of the pier she went, then sat down, leaned against a dock support and closed her tired eyes. When the steamer came very close she languidly watched the people lining the railing. Instantly she marked one lean anxious face turned toward hers, and with a throb of pity she lifted a hand and waved to Hart Henderson. He was the first man to leave the boat, coming to her instantly. She spread her trailing skirts and motioned him to sit beside her. Silently they looked across the softly lapping water. At last she forced herself to speak to him.

“Did you have a successful trip?”

“I accomplished my purpose.”

“You didn’t lose any time getting back.”

“I never do when I am coming to you.”

“Do you want to go to the cottage for anything?”

“No.”

“Then let us sit here and wait until the Petoskey steamer comes in. I like to watch the boats. Sometimes I study the faces, if I am not too tired.”

“Have you seen any new types to-day?”

She shook her head. “This has not been an easy day, Hart.”

“And it’s going to be worse,” said Henderson bitterly. “There’s no use putting it off. Edith, I saw some one to-day.”

“You should have seen thousands,” she said lightly.

“I did. But of them all, only one will be of interest to you.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man.”

“Where?”

“Lake Shore private hospital.”

“An accident?”

“No. Nervous and physical breakdown.”

“Phil said he was going back to the Limberlost.”

“He went. He was there three weeks, but the strain broke him. He has an old letter in his hands that he has handled until it is ragged. He held it up to me and said: “You can see for yourself that she says she will be well and happy, but we can’t know until we see her again, and that may never be. She may have gone too near that place her father went down, some of that Limberlost gang may have found her in the forest, she may lie dead in some city morgue this instant, waiting for me to find her body.”

“Hart! For pity sake stop!”

“I can’t,” cried Henderson desperately. “I am forced to tell you. They are fighting brain fever. He did go back to the swamp and he prowled it night and day. The days down there are hot now, and the nights wet with dew and cold. He paid no attention and forgot his food. A fever started and his uncle brought him home. They’ve never had a word from her, or found a trace of her. Mrs. Comstock thought she had gone to O’Mores’ at Great Rapids, so when Phil broke down she telegraphed there. They had been gone all summer, so her mother is as anxious as Phil.”

“The O’Mores are here,” said Edith. “I haven’t seen any of them, because I haven’t gone out much in the few days since we came, but this is their summer home.”

“Edith, they say at the hospital that it will take careful nursing to save Phil. He is surrounded by stacks of maps and railroad guides. He is trying to frame up a plan to set the entire detective agency of the country to work. He says he will stay there just two days longer. The doctors say he will kill himself when he goes. He is a sick man, Edith. His hands are burning and shaky and his breath was hot against my face.”

“Why are you telling me?” It was a cry of acute anguish.

“He thinks you know where she is.”

“I do not! I haven’t an idea! I never dreamed she would go away when she had him in her hand! I should not have done it!”

“He said it was something you said to her that made her go.”

“That may be, but it doesn’t prove that I know where she went.”

Henderson looked across the water and suffered keenly. At last he turned to Edith and laid a firm, strong hand over hers.

“Edith,” he said, “do you realize how serious this is?”

“I suppose I do.”

“Do you want as fine a fellow as Philip driven any further? If he leaves that hospital now, and goes out to the exposure and anxiety of a search for her, there will be a tragedy that no after regrets can avert. Edith, what did you say to Miss Comstock that made her run away from Phil?”

The girl turned her face from him and sat still, but the man gripping her hands and waiting in agony could see that she was shaken by the jolting of the heart in her breast.

“Edith, what did you say?”

“What difference can it make?”

“It might furnish some clue to her action.”

“It could not possibly.”

“Phil thinks so. He has thought so until his brain is worn enough to give way. Tell me, Edith!”

“I told her Phil was mine! That if he were away from her an hour and back in my presence, he would be to me as he always has been.”

“Edith, did you believe that?”

“I would have staked my life, my soul on it!”

“Do you believe it now?”

There was no answer. Henderson took her other hand and holding both of them firmly he said softly: “Don’t mind me, dear. I don’t count! I’m just old Hart! You can tell me anything. Do you still believe that?”

The beautiful head barely moved in negation. Henderson gathered both her hands in one of his and stretched an arm across her shoulders to the post to support her. She dragged her hands from him and twisted them together.

“Oh, Hart!” she cried. “It isn’t fair! There is a limit! I have suffered my share. Can’t you see? Can’t you understand?”

“Yes,” he panted. “Yes, my girl! Tell me just this one thing yet, and I’ll cheerfully kill any one who annoys you further. Tell me, Edith!”

Then she lifted her big, dull, pain-filled eyes to his and cried: “No! I do not believe it now! I know it is not true! I killed his love for me. It is dead and gone forever. Nothing will revive it! Nothing in all this world. And that is not all. I did not know how to touch the depths of his nature. I never developed in him those things he was made to enjoy. He admired me. He was proud to be with me. He thought, and I thought, that he worshipped me; but I know now that he never did care for me as he cares for her. Never! I can see it! I planned to lead society, to make his home a place sought for my beauty and popularity. She plans to advance his political ambitions, to make him comfortable physically, to stimulate his intellect, to bear him a brood of red-faced children. He likes her and her plans as he never did me and mine. Oh, my soul! Now, are you satisfied?”

She dropped back against his arm exhausted. Henderson held her and learned what suffering truly means. He fanned her with his hat, rubbed her cold hands and murmured broken, incoherent things. By and by slow tears slipped from under her closed lids, but when she opened them her eyes were dull and hard.

“What a rag one is when the last secret of the soul is torn out and laid bare!” she cried.

Henderson thrust his handkerchief into her fingers and whispered, “Edith, the boat has been creeping up. It’s very close. Maybe some of our crowd are on it. Hadn’t we better slip away from here before it lands?”

“If I can walk,” she said. “Oh, I am so dead tired, Hart!

“Yes, dear,” said Henderson soothingly. “Just try to pass the landing before the boat anchors. If I only dared carry you!”

They struggled through the waiting masses, but directly opposite the landing there was a backward movement in the happy, laughing crowd, the gang-plank came down with a slam, and people began hurrying from the boat. Crowded against the fish house on the dock, Henderson could only advance a few steps at a time. He was straining every nerve to protect and assist Edith. He saw no one he recognized near them, so he slipped his arm across her back to help support her. He felt her stiffen against him and catch her breath. At the same instant, the clearest, sweetest male voice he ever had heard called: “Be careful there, little men!”

Henderson sent a swift glance toward the boat. Terence O’More had stepped from the gang-plank, leading a little daughter, so like him, it was comical. There followed a picture not easy to describe. The Angel in the full flower of her beauty, richly dressed, a laugh on her cameo face, the setting sun glinting on her gold hair, escorted by her eldest son, who held her hand tightly and carefully watched her steps. Next came Elnora, dressed with equal richness, a trifle taller and slenderer, almost the same type of colouring, but with different eyes and hair, facial lines and expression. She was led by the second O’More boy who convulsed the crowd by saying: “Tareful, Elnora! Don’t ‘oo be ‘teppin’ in de water!”

People surged around them, purposely closing them in.

“What lovely women! Who are they? It’s the O’Mores. The lightest one is his wife. Is that her sister? No, it is his! They say he has a title in England.”

Whispers ran fast and audible. As the crowd pressed around the party an opening was left beside the fish sheds. Edith ran down the dock. Henderson sprang after her, catching her arm and assisting her to the street.

“Up the shore! This way!” she panted. “Every one will go to dinner the first thing they do.”

They left the street and started around the beach, but Edith was breathless from running, while the yielding sand made difficult walking.

“Help me!” she cried, clinging to Henderson. He put his arm around her, almost carrying her from sight into a little cove walled by high rocks at the back, while there was a clean floor of white sand, and logs washed from the lake for seats. He found one of these with a back rest, and hurrying down to the water he soaked his handkerchief and carried it to her. She passed it across her lips, over her eyes, and then pressed the palms of her hands upon it. Henderson removed the heavy hat, fanned her with his, and wet the handkerchief again.

“Hart, what makes you?” she said wearily. “My mother doesn’t care. She says this is good for me. Do you think this is good for me, Hart?”

“Edith, you know I would give my life if I could save you this,” he said, and could not speak further.

She leaned against him, closed her eyes and lay silent so long the man fell into panic.

“Edith, you are not unconscious?” he whispered, touching her.

“No. just resting. Please don’t leave me.”

He held her carefully, gently fanning her. She was suffering almost more than either of them could endure.

“I wish you had your boat,” she said at last. “I want to sail with the wind in my face.”

“There is no wind. I can bring my motor around in a few minutes.”

“Then get it.”

“Lie on the sand. I can ‘phone from the first booth. It won’t take but a little while.”

Edith lay on the white sand, and Henderson covered her face with her hat. Then he ran to the nearest booth and talked imperatively. Presently he was back bringing a hot drink that was stimulating. Shortly the motor ran close to the beach and stopped. Henderson’s servant brought a row-boat ashore and took them to the launch. It was filled with cushions and wraps. Henderson made a couch and soon, warmly covered, Edith sped out over the water in search of peace.

Hour after hour the boat ran up and down the shore. The moon arose and the night air grew very chilly. Henderson put on an overcoat and piled more covers on Edith.

“You must take me home,” she said at last. “The folks will be uneasy.”

He was compelled to take her to the cottage with the battle still raging. He went back early the next morning, but already she had wandered out over the island. Instinctively Henderson felt that the shore would attract her. There was something in the tumult of rough little Huron’s waves that called to him. It was there he found her, crouching so close the water the foam was dampening her skirts.

“May I stay?” he asked.

“I have been hoping you would come,” she answered. “It’s bad enough when you are here, but it is a little easier than bearing it alone.”

“Thank God for that!” said Henderson sitting beside her. “Shall I talk to you?”

She shook her head. So they sat by the hour. At last she spoke: “Of course, you know there is something I have got to do, Hart!”

“You have not!” cried Henderson, violently. “That’s all nonsense! Give me just one word of permission. That is all that is required of you.”

“`Required?’ You grant, then, that there is something `required?'”

“One word. Nothing more.”

“Did you ever know one word could be so big, so black, so desperately bitter? Oh, Hart!”

“No.”

“But you know it now, Hart!”

“Yes.”

“And still you say that it is `required?'”

Henderson suffered unspeakably. At last he said: “If you had seen and heard him, Edith, you, too, would feel that it is `required.’ Remember—-“

“No! No! No!” she cried. “Don’t ask me to remember even the least of my pride and folly. Let me forget!”

She sat silent for a long time.

“Will you go with me?” she whispered.

“Of course.”

At last she arose.

“I might as well give up and have it over,” she faltered.

That was the first time in her life that Edith Carr ever had proposed to give up anything she wanted.

“Help me, Hart!”

Henderson started around the beach assisting her all he could. Finally he stopped.

“Edith, there is no sense in this! You are too tired to go. You know you can trust me. You wait in any of these lovely places and send me. You will be safe, and I’ll run. One word is all that is necessary.”

“But I’ve got to say that word myself, Hart!”

“Then write it, and let me carry it. The message is not going to prove who went to the office and sent it.”

“That is quite true,” she said, dropping wearily, but she made no movement to take the pen and paper he offered.

“Hart, you write it,” she said at last.

Henderson turned away his face. He gripped the pen, while his breath sucked between his dry teeth.

“Certainly!” he said when he could speak. “Mackinac, August 27, 1908. Philip Ammon, Lake Shore Hospital, Chicago.” He paused with suspended pen and glanced at Edith. Her white lips were working, but no sound came. “Miss Comstock is with the Terence O’Mores, on Mackinac Island,” prompted Henderson.

Edith nodded.

“Signed, Henderson,” continued the big man.

Edith shook her head.

“Say, `She is well and happy,’ and sign, Edith Carr!” she panted.

“Not on your life!” flashed Henderson.

“For the love of mercy, Hart, don’t make this any harder! It is the least I can do, and it takes every ounce of strength in me to do it.”

“Will you wait for me here?” he asked.

She nodded, and, pulling his hat lower over his eyes, Henderson ran around the shore. In less than an hour he was back. He helped her a little farther to where the Devil’s Kitchen lay cut into the rocks; it furnished places to rest, and cool water. Before long his man came with the boat. From it they spread blankets on the sand for her, and made chafing-dish tea. She tried to refuse it, but the fragrance overcame her for she drank ravenously. Then Henderson cooked several dishes and spread an appetizing lunch. She was young, strong, and almost famished for food. She was forced to eat. That made her feel much better. Then Henderson helped her into the boat and ran it through shady coves of the shore, where there were refreshing breezes. When she fell asleep the girl did not know, but the man did. Sadly in need of rest himself, he ran that boat for five hours through quiet bays, away from noisy parties, and where the shade was cool and deep. When she awoke he took her home, and as they went she knew that she had been mistaken. She would not die. Her heart was not even broken. She had suffered horribly; she would suffer more; but eventually the pain must wear out. Into her head crept a few lines of an old opera:

“Hearts do not break, they sting and ache, For old love’s sake, but do not die,
As witnesseth the living I.”

That evening they were sailing down the Straits before a stiff breeze and Henderson was busy with the tiller when she said to him: “Hart, I want you to do something more for me.”

“You have only to tell me,” he said.

“Have I only to tell you, Hart?” she asked softly.

“Haven’t you learned that yet, Edith?”

“I want you to go away.”

“Very well,” he said quietly, but his face whitened visibly.

“You say that as if you had been expecting it.”

“I have. I knew from the beginning that when this was over you would dislike me for having seen you suffer. I have grown my Gethsemane in a full realization of what was coming, but I could not leave you, Edith, so long as it seemed to me that I was serving you. Does it make any difference to you where I go?”

“I want you where you will be loved, and good care taken of you.”

“Thank you!” said Henderson, smiling grimly. “Have you any idea where such a spot might be found?”

“It should be with your sister at Los Angeles. She always has seemed very fond of you.”

“That is quite true,” said Henderson, his eyes brightening a little. “I will go to her. When shall I start?”

“At once.”

Henderson began to tack for the landing, but his hands shook until he scarcely could manage the boat. Edith Carr sat watching him indifferently, but her heart was throbbing painfully. “Why is there so much suffering in the world?” she kept whispering to herself. Inside her door Henderson took her by the shoulders almost roughly.

“For how long is this, Edith, and how are you going to say good-bye to me?”

She raised tired, pain-filled eyes to his.

“I don’t know for how long it is,” she said. “It seems now as if it had been a slow eternity. I wish to my soul that God would be merciful to me and make something `snap’ in my heart, as there did in Phil’s, that would give me rest. I don’t know for how long, but I’m perfectly shameless with you, Hart. If peace ever comes and I want you, I won’t wait for you to find it out yourself, I’ll cable, Marconigraph, anything. As for how I say good-bye; any way you please, I don’t care in the least what happens to me.”

Henderson studied her intently.

“In that case, we will shake hands,” he said. “Good-bye, Edith. Don’t forget that every hour I am thinking of you and hoping all good things will come to you soon.”

CHAPTER XXV

WHEREIN PHILIP FINDS ELNORA,
AND EDITH CARR OFFERS A YELLOW EMPEROR

Oh, I need my own violin,” cried Elnora. “This one may be a thousand times more expensive, and much older than mine; but it wasn’t inspired and taught to sing by a man who knew how. It doesn’t know `beans,’ as mother would say, about the Limberlost.”

The guests in the O’More music-room laughed appreciatively.

“Why don’t you write your mother to come for a visit and bring yours?” suggested Freckles.

“I did that three days ago,” acknowledged Elnora. “I am half expecting her on the noon boat. That is one reason why this violin grows worse every minute. There is nothing at all the matter with me.”

“Splendid!” cried the Angel. “I’ve begged and begged her to do it. I know how anxious these mothers become. When did you send? What made you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“`When?’ Three days ago. `What made me?’ You. `Why didn’t I tell you?’ Because I can’t be sure in the least that she will come. Mother is the most individual person. She never does what every one expects she will.

She may not come, and I didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

“How did I make you?” asked the Angel.

“Loving Alice. It made me realize that if you cared for your girl like that, with Mr. O’More and three other children, possibly my mother, with no one, might like to see me. I know I want to see her, and you had told me to so often, I just sent for her. Oh, I do hope she comes! I want her to see this lovely place.”

“I have been wondering what you thought of Mackinac,” said Freckles.

“Oh, it is a perfect picture, all of it! I should like to hang it on the wall, so I could see it whenever I wanted to; but it isn’t real, of course; it’s nothing but a picture.”

“These people won’t agree with you,” smiled Freckles.

“That isn’t necessary,” retorted Elnora. “They know this, and they love it; but you and I are acquainted with something different. The Limberlost is life. Here it is a carefully kept park. You motor, sail, and golf, all so secure and fine. But what I like is the excitement of choosing a path carefully, in the fear that the quagmire may reach out and suck me down; to go into the swamp naked-handed and wrest from it treasures that bring me books and clothing, and I like enough of a fight for things that I always remember how I got them. I even enjoy seeing a canny old vulture eyeing me as if it were saying: `Ware the sting of the rattler, lest I pick your bones as I did old Limber’s.’ I like sufficient danger to put an edge on life. This is so tame. I should have loved it when all the homes were cabins, and watchers for the stealthy Indian canoes patrolled the shores. You wait until mother comes, and if my violin isn’t angry with me for leaving it, to-night we shall sing you the Song of the Limberlost. You shall hear the big gold bees over the red, yellow, and purple flowers, bird song, wind talk, and the whispers of Sleepy Snake Creek, as it goes past you. You will know!” Elnora turned to Freckles.

He nodded. “Who better?” he asked. “This is secure while the children are so small, but when they grow larger, we are going farther north, into real forest, where they can learn self-reliance and develop backbone.”

Elnora laid away the violin. “Come along, children,” she said. “We must get at that backbone business at once. Let’s race to the playhouse.”

With the brood at her heels Elnora ran, and for an hour lively sounds stole from the remaining spot of forest on the Island, which lay beside the O’More cottage. Then Terry went to the playroom to bring Alice her doll. He came racing back, dragging it by one leg, and crying: “There’s company! Someone has come that mamma and papa are just tearing down the house over. I saw through the window.”

“It could not be my mother, yet,” mused Elnora. “Her boat is not due until twelve. Terry, give Alice that doll—-“

“It’s a man-person, and I don’t know him, but my father is shaking his hand right straight along, and my mother is running for a hot drink and a cushion. It’s a kind of a sick person, but they are going to make him well right away, any one can see that. This is the best place.

I’ll go tell him to come lie on the pine needles in the sun and watch the sails go by. That will fix him!”

“Watch sails go by,” chanted Little Brother. “‘A fix him! Elnora fix him, won’t you?”

“I don’t know about that,” answered Elnora. “What sort of person is he, Terry?”

“A beautiful white person; but my father is going to `colour him up,’ I heard him say so. He’s just out of the hospital, and he is a bad person, ’cause he ran away from the doctors and made them awful angry. But father and mother are going to doctor him better. I didn’t know they could make sick people well.”

“‘Ey do anyfing!” boasted Little Brother.

Before Elnora missed her, Alice, who had gone to investigate, came flying across the shadows and through the sunshine waving a paper. She thurst it into Elnora’s hand.

“There is a man-person–a stranger-person!” she shouted. “But he knows you! He sent you that! You are to be the doctor! He said so! Oh, do hurry! I like him heaps!”

Elnora read Edith Carr’s telegram to Philip Ammon and understood that he had been ill, that she had been located by Edith who had notified him. In so doing she had acknowledged defeat. At last Philip was free. Elnora looked up with a radiant face.

“I like him `heaps’ myself!” she cried. “Come on children, we will go tell him so.”

Terry and Alice ran, but Elnora had to suit her steps to Little Brother, who was her loyal esquire, and would have been heartbroken over desertion and insulted at being carried. He was rather dragged, but he was arriving, and the emergency was great, he could see that.

“She’s coming!” shouted Alice.

“She’s going to be the doctor!” cried Terry.

“She looked just like she’d seen angels when she read the letter,” explained Alice.

“She likes you `heaps!’ She said so!” danced Terry. “Be waiting! Here she is!”

Elnora helped Little Brother up the steps, then deserted him and came at a rush. The stranger-person stood holding out trembling arms.

“Are you sure, at last, runaway?” asked Philip Ammon.

“Perfectly sure!” cried Elnora.

“Will you marry me now?”

“This instant! That is, any time after the noon boat comes in.”

“Why such unnecessary delay?” demanded Ammon.

“It is almost September,” explained Elnora. “I sent for mother three days ago. We must wait until she comes, and we either have to send for Uncle Wesley and Aunt Margaret, or go to them. I couldn’t possibly be married properly without those dear people.”

“We will send,” decided Ammon. “The trip will be a treat for them. O’More, would you get off a message at once?”

Every one met the noon boat. They went in the motor because Philip was too weak to walk so far. As soon as people could be distinguished at all Elnora and Philip sighted an erect figure, with a head like a snowdrift. When the gang-plank fell the first person across it was a lean, red-haired boy of eleven, carrying a violin in one hand and an enormous bouquet of yellow marigolds and purple asters in the other. He was beaming with broad smiles until he saw Philip. Then his expression changed.

“Aw, say!” he exclaimed reproachfully. “I bet you Aunt Margaret is right. He is going to be your beau!”

Elnora stooped to kiss Billy as she caught her mother.

“There, there!” cried Mrs. Comstock. “Don’t knock my headgear into my eye. I’m not sure I’ve got either hat or hair. The wind blew like bizzem coming up the river.”

She shook out her skirts, straightened her hat, and came forward to meet Philip, who took her into his arms and kissed her repeatedly. Then he passed her along to Freckles and the Angel to whom her greetings were mingled with scolding and laughter over her wind-blown hair.

“No doubt I’m a precious spectacle!” she said to the Angel. “I saw your pa a little before I started, and he sent you a note. It’s in my satchel. He said he was coming up next week. What a lot of people there are in this world! And what on earth are all of them laughing about? Did none of them ever hear of sickness, or sorrow, or death? Billy, don’t you go to playing Indian or chasing woodchucks until you get out of those clothes. I promised Margaret I’d bring back that suit good as new.”

Then the O’More children came crowding to meet Elnora’s mother.

“Merry Christmas!” cried Mrs. Comstock, gathering them in. “Got everything right here but the tree, and there seems to be plenty of them a little higher up. If this wind would stiffen just enough more to blow away the people, so one could see this place, I believe it would be right decent looking.”

“See here,” whispered Elnora to Philip. “You must fix this with Billy. I can’t have his trip spoiled.”

“Now, here is where I dust the rest of ’em!” complacently remarked Mrs. Comstock, as she climbed into the motor car for her first ride, in company with Philip and Little Brother. “I have been the one to trudge the roads and hop out of the way of these things for quite a spell.”

She sat very erect as the car rolled into the broad main avenue, where only stray couples were walking. Her eyes began to twinkle and gleam. Suddenly she leaned forward and touched the driver on the shoulder.

“Young man,” she said, “just you toot that horn suddenly and shave close enough a few of those people, so that I can see how I look when I leap for ragweed and snake fences.”

The amazed chauffeur glanced questioningly at Philip who slightly nodded. A second later there was a quick “honk!” and a swerve at a corner. A man engrossed in conversation grabbed the woman to whom he was talking and dashed for the safety of a lawn. The woman tripped in her skirts, and as she fell the man caught and dragged her. Both of them turned red faces to the car and berated the driver. Mrs. Comstock laughed in unrestrained enjoyment. Then she touched the chauffeur again.

“That’s enough,” she said. “It seems a mite risky.” A minute later she added to Philip, “If only they had been carrying six pounds of butter and ten dozen eggs apiece, wouldn’t that have been just perfect?”

Billy had wavered between Elnora and the motor, but his loyal little soul had been true to her, so the walk to the cottage began with him at her side. Long before they arrived the little O’Mores had crowded around and captured Billy, and he was giving them an expurgated version of Mrs. Comstock’s tales of Big Foot and Adam Poe, boasting that Uncle Wesley had been in the camps of Me-shin-go-me-sia and knew Wa-ca-co-nah before he got religion and dressed like white men; while the mighty prowess of Snap as a woodchuck hunter was done full justice. When they reached the cottage Philip took Billy aside, showed him the emerald ring and gravely asked his permission to marry Elnora. Billy struggled to be just, but it was going hard with him, when Alice, who kept close enough to hear, intervened.

“Why don’t you let them get married?” she asked. “You are much too small for her. You wait for me!”

Billy studied her intently. At last he turned to Ammon. “Aw, well! Go on, then!” he said gruffly. “I’ll marry Alice!”

Alice reached her hand. “If you got that settled let’s put on our Indian clothes, call the boys, and go to the playhouse.”

“I haven’t got any Indian clothes,” said Billy ruefully.

“Yes, you have,” explained Alice. “Father bought you some coming from the dock. You can put them on in the playhouse. The boys do.”

Billy examined the playhouse with gleaming eyes.

Never had he encountered such possibilities. He could see a hundred amusing things to try, and he could not decide which to do first. The most immediate attraction seemed to be a dead pine, held perpendicularly by its fellows, while its bark had decayed and fallen, leaving a bare, smooth trunk.

“If we just had some grease that would make the dandiest pole to play Fourth of July with!” he shouted.

The children remembered the Fourth. It had been great fun.

“Butter is grease. There is plenty in the ‘frigerator,” suggested Alice, speeding away.

Billy caught the cold roll and began to rub it against the tree excitedly.

“How are you going to get it greased to the top?” inquired Terry.

Billy’s face lengthened. “That’s so!” he said. “The thing is to begin at the top and grease down. I’ll show you!”

Billy put the butter in his handkerchief and took the corners between his teeth. He climbed the pole, greasing it as he slid down.

“Now, I got to try first,” he said, “because I’m the biggest and so I have the best chance; only the one that goes first hasn’t hardly any chance at all, because he has to wipe off the grease on himself, so the others can get up at last. See?”

“All right!” said Terry. “You go first and then I will and then Alice. Phew! It’s slick. He’ll never get up.”

Billy wrestled manfully, and when he was exhausted he boosted Terry, and then both of them helped Alice, to whom they awarded a prize of her own doll. As they rested Billy remembered.

“Do your folks keep cows?” he asked.

“No, we buy milk,” said Terry.

“Gee! Then what about the butter? Maybe your ma needs it for dinner!”

“No, she doesn’t!” cried Alice. “There’s stacks of it! I can have all the butter I want.”

“Well, I’m mighty glad of it!” said Billy. “I didn’t just think. I’m afraid we’ve greased our clothes, too.”

“That’s no difference,” said Terry. “We can play what we please in these things.”

“Well, we ought to be all dirty, and bloody, and have feathers on us to be real Indians,” said Billy.

Alice tried a handful of dirt on her sleeve and it streaked beautifully. Instantly all of them began smearing themselves.

“If we only had feathers,” lamented Billy.

Terry disappeared and shortly returned from the garage with a feather duster. Billy fell on it with a shriek. Around each one’s head he firmly tied a twisted handkerchief, and stuck inside it a row of stiffly upstanding feathers.

“Now, if we just only had some pokeberries to paint us red, we’d be real, for sure enough Indians, and we could go on the warpath and fight all the other tribes and burn a lot of them at the stake.”

Alice sidled up to him. “Would huckleberries do?” she asked softly.

“Yes!” shouted Terry, wild with excitement. “Anything that’s a colour.”

Alice made another trip to the refrigerator. Billy crushed the berries in his hands and smeared and streaked all their faces liberally.

“Now are we ready?” asked Alice.

Billy collapsed. “I forgot the ponies! You got to ride ponies to go on the warpath!”

“You ain’t neither!” contradicted Terry. “It’s the very latest style to go on the warpath in a motor. Everybody does! They go everywhere in them. They are much faster and better than any old ponies.”

Billy gave one genuine whoop. “Can we take your motor?”

Terry hesitated.

“I suppose you are too little to run it?” said Billy.

“I am not!” flashed Terry. “I know how to start and stop it, and I drive lots for Stephens. It is hard to turn over the engine when you start.”

“I’ll turn it,” volunteered Billy. “I’m strong as anything.”

“Maybe it will start without. If Stephens has just been running it, sometimes it will. Come on, let’s try.”

Billy straightened up, lifted his chin and cried: “Houpe! Houpe! Houpe!”

The little O’Mores stared in amazement.

“Why don’t you come on and whoop?” demanded Billy. “Don’t you know how? You are great Indians! You got to whoop before you go on the warpath. You ought to kill a bat, too, and see if the wind is right. But maybe the engine won’t run if we wait to do that. You can whoop, anyway. All together now!”

They did whoop, and after several efforts the cry satisfied Billy, so he led the way to the big motor, and took the front seat with Terry. Alice and Little Brother climbed into the back.

“Will it go?” asked Billy, “or do we have to turn it?”

“It will go,” said Terry as the machine gently slid out into the avenue and started under his guidance.

“This is no warpath!” scoffed Billy. “We got to go a lot faster than this, and we got to whoop. Alice, why don’t you whoop?

Alice arose, took hold of the seat in front and whooped.

“If I open the throttle, I can’t squeeze the bulb to scare people out of our way,” said Terry. “I can’t steer and squeeze, too.”

“We’ll whoop enough to get them out of the way. Go faster!” urged Billy.

Billy also stood, lifted his chin and whooped like the wildest little savage that ever came out of the West. Alice and Little Brother added their voices, and when he was not absorbed with the steering gear, Terry joined in.

“Faster!” shouted Billy.

Intoxicated with the speed and excitement, Terry threw the throttle wider and the big car leaped forward and sped down the avenue. In it four black, feather- bedecked children whooped in wild glee until suddenly Terry’s war cry changed to a scream of panic.

“The lake is coming!”

“Stop!” cried Billy. “Stop! Why don’t you stop?”

Paralyzed with fear Terry clung to the steering gear and the car sped onward.

“You little fool! Why don’t you stop?” screamed Billy, catching Terry’s arm. “Tell me how to stop!”

A bicycle shot beside them and Freckles standing on the pedals shouted: “Pull out the pin in that little circle at your feet!”

Billy fell on his knees and tugged and the pin yielded at last. Just as the wheels struck the white sand the bicycle sheered close, Freckles caught the lever and with one strong shove set the brake. The water flew as the car struck Huron, but luckily it was shallow and the beach smooth. Hub deep the big motor stood quivering as Freckles climbed in and backed it to dry sand.

Then he drew a deep breath and stared at his brood.

“Terence, would you kindly be explaining?” he said at last.

Billy looked at the panting little figure of Terry.

“I guess I better,” he said. “We were playing Indians on the warpath, and we hadn’t any ponies, and Terry said it was all the style to go in automobiles now, so we—-“

Freckles’s head went back, and be did some whooping himself.

“I wonder if you realize how nearly you came to being four drowned children?” he said gravely, after a time.

“Oh, I think I could swim enough to get most of us out,” said Billy. “Anyway, we need washing.”

“You do indeed,” said Freckles. “I will head this procession to the garage, and there we will remove the first coat.” For the remainder of Billy’s visit the nurse, chauffeur, and every servant of the O’More household had something of importance on their minds, and Billy’s every step was shadowed.

“I have Billy’s consent,” said Philip to Elnora, “and all the other consent you have stipulated. Before you think of something more, give me your left hand, please.”

Elnora gave it gladly, and the emerald slipped on her finger. Then they went together into the forest to tell each other all about it, and talk it over.

“Have you seen Edith?” asked Philip.

“No,” answered Elnora. “But she must be here, or she may have seen me when we went to Petoskey a few days ago. Her people have a cottage over on the bluff, but the Angel never told me until to-day. I didn’t want to make that trip, but the folks were so anxious to entertain me, and it was only a few days until I intended to let you know myself where I was.”

“And I was going to wait just that long, and if I didn’t hear then I was getting ready to turn over the country. I can scarcely realize yet that Edith sent me that telegram.”

“No wonder! It’s a difficult thing to believe. I can’t express how I feel for her.”

“Let us never speak of it again,” said Philip. “I came nearer feeling sorry for her last night than I have yet. I couldn’t sleep on that boat coming over, and I couldn’t put away the thought of what sending that message cost her. I never would have believed it possible that she would do it. But it is done. We will forget it.”

“I scarcely think I shall,” said Elnora. “It is something I like to remember. How suffering must have changed her! I would give anything to bring her peace.”

“Henderson came to see me at the hospital a few days ago. He’s gone a rather wild pace, but if he had been held from youth by the love of a good woman he might have lived differently. There are things about him one cannot help admiring.”

“I think he loves her,” said Elnora softly.

“He does! He always has! He never made any secret of it. He will cut in now and do his level best, but he told me that he thought she would send him away. He understands her thoroughly.”

Edith Carr did not understand herself. She went to her room after her good-bye to Henderson, lay on her bed and tried to think why she was suffering as she was.

“It is all my selfishness, my unrestrained temper, my pride in my looks, my ambition to be first,” she said. “That is what has caused this trouble.”

Then she went deeper.

“How does it happen that I am so selfish, that I never controlled my temper, that I thought beauty and social position the vital things of life?” she muttered. “I think that goes a little past me. I think a mother who allows a child to grow up as I did, who educates it only for the frivolities of life, has a share in that child’s ending. I think my mother has some responsibility in this,” Edith Carr whispered to the night. “But she will recognize none. She would laugh at me if I tried to tell her what I have suffered and the bitter, bitter lesson I have learned. No one really cares, but Hart. I’ve sent him away, so there is no one! No one!”

Edith pressed her fingers across her burning eyes and lay still.

“He is gone!” she whispered at last. “He would go at once. He would not see me again. I should think he never would want to see me any more. But I will want to see him! My soul! I want him now! I want him every minute! He is all I have. And I’ve sent him away. Oh, these dreadful days to come, alone! I can’t bear it. Hart! Hart!” she cried aloud. “I want you! No one cares but you. No one understands but you. Oh, I want you!”

She sprang from her bed and felt her way to her desk.

“Get me some one at the Henderson cottage,” she said to Central, and waited shivering.

“They don’t answer.”

“They are there! You must get them. Turn on the buzzer.”

After a time the sleepy voice of Mrs. Henderson answered.

“Has Hart gone?” panted Edith Carr.

“No! He came in late and began to talk about starting to California. He hasn’t slept in weeks to amount to anything. I put him to bed. There is time enough to start to California when he awakens. Edith, what are you planning to do next with that boy of mine?”

“Will you tell him I want to see him before he goes?”

“Yes, but I won’t wake him.”

“I don’t want you to. Just tell him in the morning.”

“Very well.”

“You will be sure?”

“Sure!”

Hart was not gone. Edith fell asleep. She arose at noon the next day, took a cold bath, ate her breakfast, dressed carefully, and leaving word that she had gone to the forest, she walked slowly across the leaves. It was cool and quiet there, so she sat where she could see him coming, and waited. She was thinking deep and fast.

Henderson came swiftly down the path. A long sleep, food, and Edith’s message had done him good. He had dressed in new light flannels that were becoming. Edith arose and went to meet him.

“Let us walk in the forest,” she said.

They passed the old Catholic graveyard, and entered the deepest wood of the Island, where all shadows were green, all voices of humanity ceased, and there was no sound save the whispering of the trees, a few bird notes and squirrel rustle. There Edith seated herself on a mossy old log, and Henderson studied her. He could detect a change. She was still pale and her eyes tired, but the dull, strained look was gone. He wanted to hope, but he did not dare. Any other man would have forced her to speak. The mighty tenderness in Henderson’s heart shielded her in every way.

“What have you thought of that you wanted yet, Edith?” he asked lightly as he stretched himself at her feet.

“You!”

Henderson lay tense and very still.

“Well, I am here!”

“Thank Heaven for that!”

Henderson sat up suddenly, leaning toward her with questioning eyes. Not knowing what he dared say, afraid of the hope which found birth in his heart, he tried to shield her and at the same time to feel his way.

“I am more thankful than I can express that you feel so,” he said. “I would be of use, of comfort, to you if I knew how, Edith.”

“You are my only comfort,” she said. “I tried to send you away. I thought I didn’t want you. I thought I couldn’t bear the sight of you, because of what you have seen me suffer. But I went to the root of this thing last night, Hart, and with self in mind, as usual, I found that I could not live without you.”

Henderson began breathing lightly. He was afraid to speak or move.

“I faced the fact that all this is my own fault,” continued Edith, “and came through my own selfishness. Then I went farther back and realized that I am as I was reared. I don’t want to blame my parents, but I was carefully trained into what I am. If Elnora Comstock had been like me, Phil would have come back to me. I can see how selfish I seem to him, and how I appear to you, if you would admit it.”

“Edith,” said Henderson desperately, “there is no use to try to deceive you. You have known from the first that I found you wrong in this. But it’s the first time in your life I ever thought you wrong about anything–and it’s the only time I ever shall. Understand, I think you the bravest, most beautiful woman on earth, the one most worth loving.”

“I’m not to be considered in the same class with her.”

“I don’t grant that, but if I did, you, must remember how I compare with Phil. He’s my superior at every point. There’s no use in discussing that. You wanted to see me, Edith. What did you want?”

“I wanted you to not go away.”

“Not at all?”

“Not at all! Not ever! Not unless you take me with you, Hart.”

She slightly extended one hand to him. Henderson took that hand, kissing it again and again.

“Anything you want, Edith,” he said brokenly. “Just as you wish it. Do you want me to stay here, and go on as we have been?”

“Yes, only with a difference.”

“Can you tell me, Edith?”

“First, I want you to know that you are the dearest thing on earth to me, right now. I would give up everything else, before I would you. I can’t honestly say that I love you with the love you deserve. My heart is too sore. It’s too soon to know. But I love you some way. You are necessary to me. You are my comfort, my shield. If you want me, as you know me to be, Hart, you may consider me yours. I give you my word of honour I will try to be as you would have me, just as soon as I can.”

Henderson kissed her hand passionately. “Don’t, Edith,” he begged. “Don’t say those things. I can’t bear it. I understand. Everything will come right in time. Love like mine must bring a reward. You will love me some day. I can wait. I am the most patient fellow.”

“But I must say it,” cried Edith. “I–I think, Hart, that I have been on the wrong road to find happiness. I planned to finish life as I started it with Phil; and you see how glad he was to change. He wanted the other sort of girl far more than he ever wanted me. And you, Hart, honest, now–I’ll know if you don’t tell me the truth! Would you rather have a wife as I planned to live life with Phil, or would you rather have her as Elnora Comstock intends to live with him?”

“Edith!” cried the man, “Edith!”

“Of course, you can’t say it in plain English,” said the girl. “You are far too chivalrous for that. You needn’t say anything. I am answered. If you could have your choice you wouldn’t have a society wife, either. In your heart you’d like the smaller home of comfort, the furtherance of your ambitions, the palatable meals regularly served, and little children around you. I am sick of all we have grown up to, Hart. When your hour of trouble comes, there is no comfort for you. I am tired to death. You find out what you want to do, and be, that is a man’s work in the world, and I will plan our home, with no thought save your comfort. I’ll be the other kind of a girl, as fast as I can learn. I can’t correct all my faults in one day, but I’ll change as rapidly as I can.”

“God knows, I will be different, too, Edith. You shall not be the only generous one. I will make all the rest of life worthy of you. I will change, too!”

“Don’t you dare!” said Edith Carr, taking his head between her hands and holding it against her knees, while the tears slid down her cheeks. “Don’t you dare change, you big-hearted, splendid lover! I am little and selfish. You are the very finest, just as you are!”

Henderson was not talking then, so they sat through a long silence. At last he heard Edith draw a quick breath, and lifting his head he looked where she pointed. Up a fern stalk climbed a curious looking object. They watched breathlessly. By lavender feet clung a big, pursy, lavender-splotched, yellow body. Yellow and lavender wings began to expand and take on colour. Every instant great beauty became more apparent. It was one of those double-brooded freaks, which do occur on rare occasions, or merely an Eacles Imperialis moth that in the cool damp northern forest had failed to emerge in June. Edith Carr drew back with a long, shivering breath. Henderson caught her hands and gripped them firmly. Steadily she looked the thought of her heart into his eyes.

“By all the powers, you shall not!” swore the man. “You have done enough. I will smash that thing!”

“Oh no you won’t!” cried the girl, clinging to his hands. “I am not big enough yet, Hart, but before I leave this forest I shall have grown to breadth and strength to carry that to her. She needs two of each kind. Phil only sent her one!”

“Edith I can’t bear it! That’s not demanded! Let me take it!”

“You may go with me. I know where the O’More cottage is. I have been there often.”

“I’ll say you sent it!”

“You may watch me deliver it!”

“Phil may be there by now.”

“I hope he is! I should like him to see me do one decent thing by which to remember me.”

“I tell you that is not necessary!”

“`Not necessary!'” cried the girl, her big eyes shining. “Not necessary? Then what on earth is the thing doing here? I just have boasted that I would change, that I would be like her, that I would grow bigger and broader. As the words are spoken God gives me the opportunity to prove whether I am sincere. This is my test, Hart! Don’t you see it? If I am big enough to carry that to her, you will believe that there is some good in me. You will not be loving me in vain. This is an especial Providence, man! Be my strength! Help me, as you always have done!”

Henderson arose and shook the leaves from his clothing. He drew Edith Carr to her feet and carefully picked the mosses from her skirts. He went to the water and moistened his handkerchief to bathe her face.

“Now a dust of powder,” he said when the tears were washed away.

From a tiny book Edith tore leaves that she passed over her face.

“All gone!” cried Henderson, critically studying her. “You look almost half as lovely as you really are!”

Edith Carr drew a wavering breath. She stretched one hand to him.

“Hold tight, Hart!” she said. “I know they handle these things, but I would quite as soon touch a snake.”

Henderson clenched his teeth and held steadily. The moth had emerged too recently to be troublesome. It climbed on her fingers quietly and obligingly clung there without moving. So hand in hand they went down the dark forest path. When they came to the avenue, the first person they met paused with an ejaculation of wonder. The next stopped also, and every one following. They could make little progress on account of marvelling, interested people. A strange excitement took possession of Edith. She began to feel proud of the moth.

“Do you know,” she said to Henderson,” this is growing easier every step. Its clinging is not disagreeable as I thought it would be. I feel as if I were saving it, protecting it. I am proud that we are taking it to be put into a collection or a book. It seems like doing a thing worth while. Oh, Hart, I wish we could work together at something for which people would care as they seem to for this. Hear what they say! See them lift their little children to look at it!”

“Edith, if you don’t stop,” said Henderson, “I will take you in my arms here on the avenue. You are adorable!”

“Don’t you dare!” laughed Edith Carr. The colour rushed to her cheeks and a new light leaped in her eyes

“Oh, Hart!” she cried. “Let’s work! Let’s do something! That’s the way she makes people love her so. There’s the place, and thank goodness, there is a crowd.”

“You darling!” whispered Henderson as they passed up the walk. Her face was rose-flushed with excitement and her eyes shone.

“Hello, every, one!” she cried as she came on the wide veranda. “Only see what we found up in the forest! We thought you might like to have it for some of your collections.”

She held out the moth as she walked straight to Elnora, who arose to meet her, crying: “How perfectly splendid! I don’t even know how to begin to thank you.”

Elnora took the moth. Edith shook hands with all of them and asked Philip if he were improving. She said a few polite words to Freckles and the Angel, declined to remain on account of an engagement, and went away, gracefully.

“Well bully for her!” said Mrs. Comstock. “She’s a little thoroughbred after all!”

“That was a mighty big thing for her to be doing,” said Freckles in a hushed voice.

“If you knew her as well as I do,” said Philip Ammon, “you would have a better conception of what that cost.”

“It was a terror!” cried the Angel. “I never could have done it.”

“`Never could have done it!'” echoed Freckles. “Why, Angel, dear, that is the one thing of all the world you would have done!”

“I have to take care of this,” faltered Elnora, hurrying toward the door to hide the tears which were rolling down her cheeks.

“I must help,” said Philip, disappearing also. “Elnora,” he called, catching up with her, “take me where I may cry, too. Wasn’t she great?”

“Superb!” exclaimed Elnora. “I have no words. I feel so humbled!”

“So do I,” said Philip. “I think a brave deed like that always makes one feel so. Now are you happy?”

“Unspeakably happy!” answered Elnora.