A Girl of The Limberlost By Gene Stratton Porter

 

A Girl of The Limberlost

By Gene Stratton Porter

                                        

                                        

TO ALL GIRLS OF THE LIMBERLOST IN GENERAL

AND ONE JEANETTE HELEN PORTER IN PARTICULAR

                                        

CHARACTERS

ELNORA, who collects moths to pay for her education,

        and lives the Golden Rule.

PHILIP AMMON, who assists in moth hunting,

              and gains a new conception of love.

MRS. COMSTOCK, who lost a delusion and found a treasure.

WESLEY SINTON, who always did his best.

MARGARET SINTON, who "mothers" Elnora.

BILLY, a boy from real life.

EDITH CARR, who discovers herself.

HART HENDERSON, to whom love means all things.

POLLY AMMON, who pays an old score.

TOM LEVERING, engaged to Polly.

TERENCE O'MORE, Freckles grown tall.

MRS. O'MORE, who remained the Angel.

TERENCE, ALICE and LITTLE BROTHER, the O'MORE children.

A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST

CHAPTER I

WHEREIN ELNORA GOES TO HIGH SCHOOL

AND LEARNS MANY LESSONS NOT FOUND IN HER BOOKS

Elnora Comstock, have you lost your senses?"

demanded the angry voice of Katharine Comstock

while she glared at her daughter.

"Why mother!" faltered the girl.

"Don't you `why mother' me!" cried Mrs. Comstock. 

"You know very well what I mean.  You've given me

no peace until you've had your way about this going to

school business; I've fixed you good enough, and you're

ready to start.  But no child of mine walks the streets

of Onabasha looking like a play-actress woman.  You wet

your hair and comb it down modest and decent and then

be off, or you'll have no time to find where you belong."

Elnora gave one despairing glance at the white face,

framed in a most becoming riot of reddish-brown hair,

which she saw in the little kitchen mirror.  Then she

untied the narrow black ribbon, wet the comb and plastered

the waving curls close to her head, bound them fast, pinned

on the skimpy black hat and opened the back door.

"You've gone so plumb daffy you are forgetting your

dinner," jeered her mother.

"I don't want anything to eat," replied Elnora.

"You'll take your dinner or you'll not go one step. 

Are you crazy?  Walk almost three miles and no food

from six in the morning until six at night.  A pretty

figure you'd cut if you had your way!  And after I've

gone and bought you this nice new pail and filled it

especial to start on!"

Elnora came back with a face still whiter and picked

up the lunch.  "Thank you, mother!  Good-bye!" she

said.  Mrs. Comstock did not reply.  She watched the

girl follow the long walk to the gate and go from sight

on the road, in the bright sunshine of the first Monday

of September.

"I bet a dollar she gets enough of it by night!"

commented Mrs. Comstock.

Elnora walked by instinct, for her eyes were blinded

with tears.  She left the road where it turned south, at

the corner of the Limberlost, climbed a snake fence and

entered a path worn by her own feet.  Dodging under

willow and scrub oak branches she came at last to the

faint outline of an old trail made in the days when the

precious timber of the swamp was guarded by armed

men.  This path she followed until she reached a thick

clump of bushes.  From the debris in the end of a hollow

log she took a key that unlocked the padlock of a large

weatherbeaten old box, inside of which lay several books,

a butterfly apparatus, and a small cracked mirror.  The walls

were lined thickly with gaudy butterflies, dragonflies,

and moths.  She set up the mirror and once more

pulling the ribbon from her hair, she shook the bright

mass over her shoulders, tossing it dry in the sunshine. 

Then she straightened it, bound it loosely, and replaced

her hat.  She tugged vainly at the low brown calico

collar and gazed despairingly at the generous length of

the narrow skirt.  She lifted it as she would have cut

it if possible.  That disclosed the heavy high leather

shoes, at sight of which she seemed positively ill, and

hastily dropped the skirt.  She opened the pail, removed

the lunch, wrapped it in the napkin, and placed it in a

small pasteboard box.  Locking the case again she hid

the key and hurried down the trail.

She followed it around the north end of the swamp

and then entered a footpath crossing a farm leading in

the direction of the spires of the city to the northeast. 

Again she climbed a fence and was on the open road.  For

an instant she leaned against the fence staring before

her, then turned and looked back.  Behind her lay the

land on which she had been born to drudgery and a

mother who made no pretence of loving her; before her

lay the city through whose schools she hoped to find

means of escape and the way to reach the things for

which she cared.  When she thought of how she appeared

she leaned more heavily against the fence and groaned;

when she thought of turning back and wearing such

clothing in ignorance all the days of her life she set her

teeth firmly and went hastily toward Onabasha.

On the bridge crossing a deep culvert at the suburbs

she glanced around, and then kneeling she thrust the

lunch box between the foundation and the flooring. 

This left her empty-handed as she approached the big stone

high school building.  She entered bravely and inquired

her way to the office of the superintendent.  There she

learned that she should have come the previous week

and arranged about her classes.  There were many things

incident to the opening of school, and one man unable to

cope with all of them.

"Where have you been attending school?" he asked,

while he advised the teacher of Domestic Science not to

telephone for groceries until she knew how many she

would have in her classes; wrote an order for chemicals

for the students of science; and advised the leader of

the orchestra to hire a professional to take the place of

the bass violist, reported suddenly ill.

"I finished last spring at Brushwood school, district

number nine," said Elnora.  "I have been studying all summer. 

I am quite sure I can do the first year work, if I have

a few days to get started."

"Of course, of course," assented the superintendent. 

"Almost invariably country pupils do good work.  You may

enter first year, and if it is too difficult, we will find

it out speedily.  Your teachers will tell you the list of

books you must have, and if you will come with me I will

show you the way to the auditorium.  It is now time

for opening exercises.  Take any seat you find vacant."

Elnora stood before the entrance and stared into the

largest room she ever had seen.  The floor sloped to a

yawning stage on which a band of musicians, grouped

around a grand piano, were tuning their instruments. 

She had two fleeting impressions.  That it was all a

mistake; this was no school, but a grand display of

enormous ribbon bows; and the second, that she was sinking,

and had forgotten how to walk.  Then a burst from the

orchestra nerved her while a bevy of daintily clad, sweet-

smelling things that might have been birds, or flowers,

or possibly gaily dressed, happy young girls, pushed

her forward.  She found herself plodding across the back of

the auditorium, praying for guidance, to an empty seat.

As the girls passed her, vacancies seemed to open to

meet them.  Their friends were moving over, beckoning

and whispering invitations.  Every one else was seated,

but no one paid any attention to the white-faced girl

stumbling half-blindly down the aisle next the farthest wall. 

So she went on to the very end facing the stage. 

No one moved, and she could not summon courage to

crowd past others to several empty seats she saw. 

At the end of the aisle she paused in desperation, while

she stared back at the whole forest of faces most of which

were now turned upon her.

In a flash came the full realization of her scanty dress,

her pitiful little hat and ribbon, her big, heavy shoes,

her ignorance of where to go or what to do; and from a

sickening wave which crept over her, she felt she was

going to become very ill.  Then out of the mass she saw

a pair of big, brown boy eyes, three seats from her, and

there was a message in them.  Without moving his body

he reached forward and with a pencil touched the back of

the seat before him.  Instantly Elnora took another step

which brought her to a row of vacant front seats.

She heard laughter behind her; the knowledge that

she wore the only hat in the room burned her; every

matter of moment, and some of none at all, cut and stung. 

She had no books.  Where should she go when this

was over?  What would she give to be on the trail

going home!  She was shaking with a nervous chill when

the music ceased, and the superintendent arose, and

coming down to the front of the flower-decked platform,

opened a Bible and began to read.  Elnora did not know

what he was reading, and she felt that she did not care. 

Wildly she was racking her brain to decide whether she

should sit still when the others left the room or follow,

and ask some one where the Freshmen went first.

In the midst of the struggle one sentence fell on her ear. 

"Hide me under the shadow of Thy wings."

Elnora began to pray frantically.  "Hide me, O God,

hide me, under the shadow of Thy wings."

Again and again she implored that prayer, and before

she realized what was coming, every one had arisen and

the room was emptying rapidly.  Elnora hurried after the

nearest girl and in the press at the door touched her

sleeve timidly.

"Will you please tell me where the Freshmen go?" she

asked huskily.

The girl gave her one surprised glance, and drew away.

"Same place as the fresh women," she answered, and

those nearest her laughed.

Elnora stopped praying suddenly and the colour crept

into her face.  "I'll wager you are the first person I meet

when I find it," she said and stopped short.  "Not that! 

Oh, I must not do that!" she thought in dismay.  "Make an

enemy the first thing I do.  Oh, not that!"

She followed with her eyes as the young people separated

in the hall, some climbing stairs, some disappearing

down side halls, some entering adjoining doors.  She saw

the girl overtake the brown-eyed boy and speak to him. 

He glanced back at Elnora with a scowl on his face. 

Then she stood alone in the hall.

Presently a door opened and a young woman came out

and entered another room.  Elnora waited until she

returned, and hurried to her.  "Would you tell me where

the Freshmen are?" she panted.

"Straight down the hall, three doors to your left,"

was the answer, as the girl passed.

"One minute please, oh please," begged Elnora: 

"Should I knock or just open the door?"

"Go in and take a seat," replied the teacher.

"What if there aren't any seats?" gasped Elnora.

"Classrooms are never half-filled, there will be plenty,"

was the answer.

Elnora removed her hat.  There was no place to put

it, so she carried it in her hand.  She looked infinitely

better without it.  After several efforts she at last opened

the door and stepping inside faced a smaller and more

concentrated battery of eyes.

"The superintendent sent me.  He thinks I belong

here," she said to the professor in charge of the class,

but she never before heard the voice with which she spoke. 

As she stood waiting, the girl of the hall passed

on her way to the blackboard, and suppressed laughter

told Elnora that her thrust had been repeated.

"Be seated," said the professor, and then because he

saw Elnora was desperately embarrassed he proceeded

to lend her a book and to ask her if she had studied algebra. 

She said she had a little, but not the same book they were using. 

He asked her if she felt that she could do the work they were

beginning, and she said she did.

That was how it happened, that three minutes after

entering the room she was told to take her place beside the

girl who had gone last to the board, and whose flushed face

and angry eyes avoided meeting Elnora's.  Being compelled

to concentrate on her proposition she forgot herself. 

When the professor asked that all pupils sign their work

she firmly wrote "Elnora Comstock" under her demonstration. 

Then she took her seat and waited with white lips and

trembling limbs, as one after another professor called

the names on the board, while their owners arose and

explained their propositions, or "flunked" if they had

not found a correct solution.  She was so eager to catch

their forms of expression and prepare herself for her

recitation, that she never looked from the work on the

board, until clearly and distinctly, "Elnora Comstock,"

called the professor.

The dazed girl stared at the board.  One tiny curl

added to the top of the first curve of the m in her name,

had transformed it from a good old English patronymic

that any girl might bear proudly, to Cornstock. 

Elnora sat speechless.  When and how did it happen? 

She could feel the wave of smothered laughter in the air

around her.  A rush of anger turned her face scarlet and

her soul sick.  The voice of the professor addressed her directly.

"This proposition seems to be beautifully demonstrated,

Miss Cornstalk," he said.  "Surely, you can tell us how

you did it."

That word of praise saved her.  She could do good work. 

They might wear their pretty clothes, have their friends

and make life a greater misery than it ever before

had been for her, but not one of them should do better

work or be more womanly.  That lay with her.  She was

tall, straight, and handsome as she arose.

"Of course I can explain my work," she said in natural tones. 

"What I can't explain is how I happened to be so stupid

as to make a mistake in writing my own name.  I must

have been a little nervous.  Please excuse me."

She went to the board, swept off the signature with one

stroke,then rewrote it plainly.  "My name is Comstock,"

she said distinctly.  She returned to her seat and following the

formula used by the others made her first high school recitation.

As Elnora resumed her seat Professor Henley looked at

her steadily.  "It puzzles me," he said deliberately,

how you can write as beautiful a demonstration, and explain

it as clearly as ever has been done in any of my classes and

still be so disturbed as to make a mistake in your own name. 

Are you very sure you did that yourself, Miss Comstock?"

"It is impossible that any one else should have done it,"

answered Elnora.

"I am very glad you think so," said the professor. 

"Being Freshmen, all of you are strangers to me. 

I should dislike to begin the year with you feeling there

was one among you small enough to do a trick like that. 

The next proposition, please."

When the hour had gone the class filed back to the study

room and Elnora followed in desperation, because she did

not know where else to go.  She could not study as she had

no books, and when the class again left the room to go to

another professor for the next recitation, she went also. 

At least they could put her out if she did not belong there. 

Noon came at last, and she kept with the others until they

dispersed on the sidewalk.  She was so abnormally self-

conscious she fancied all the hundreds of that laughing,

throng saw and jested at her.  When she passed the

brown-eyed boy walking with the girl of her encounter,

she knew, for she heard him say:  "Did you really let that

gawky piece of calico get ahead of you?"  The answer

was indistinct.

Elnora hurried from the city.  She intended to get her

lunch, eat it in the shade of the first tree, and then decide

whether she would go back or go home.  She knelt on the

bridge and reached for her box, but it was so very light that

she was prepared for the fact that it was empty, before

opening it.  There was one thing for which to be thankful.

The boy or tramp who had seen her hide it, had left the napkin. 

She would not have to face her mother and account for

its loss.  She put it in her pocket, and threw the box

into the ditch.  Then she sat on the bridge and tried

to think, but her brain was confused.

"Perhaps the worst is over," she said at last.  "I will

go back.  What would mother say to me if I came home now?"

So she returned to the high school, followed some other

pupils to the coat room, hung her hat, and found her way

to the study where she had been in the morning.  Twice

that afternoon, with aching head and empty stomach, she

faced strange professors, in different branches.  Once she

escaped notice; the second time the worst happened.  She was

asked a question she could not answer.

"Have you not decided on your course, and secured your books?"

inquired the professor.

"I have decided on my course," replied Elnora, "I

do not know where to ask for my books."

"Ask?" the professor was bewildered.

"I understood the books were furnished," faltered Elnora.

"Only to those bringing an order from the township

trustee," replied the Professor.

"No!  Oh no!" cried Elnora.  "I will have them to-

morrow," and gripped her desk for support for she knew

that was not true.  Four books, ranging perhaps at a

dollar and a half apiece; would her mother buy them? 

Of course she would not--could not.

Did not Elnora know the story of old.  There was

enough land, but no one to do clearing and farm.  Tax on

all those acres, recently the new gravel road tax added,

the expense of living and only the work of two women to

meet all of it.  She was insane to think she could come to

the city to school.  Her mother had been right.  The girl

decided that if only she lived to reach home, she would

stay there and lead any sort of life to avoid more of

this torture.  Bad as what she wished to escape had been,

it was nothing like this.  She never could live down the

movement that went through the class when she inadvertently

revealed the fact that she had expected books to

be furnished.  Her mother would not secure them; that

settled the question.

But the end of misery is never in a hurry to come; before

the day was over the superintendent entered the room and

explained that pupils from the country were charged a

tuition of twenty dollars a year.  That really was the end. 

Previously Elnora had canvassed a dozen methods for

securing the money for books, ranging all the way from

offering to wash the superintendent's dishes to breaking

into the bank.  This additional expense made her plans

so wildly impossible, there was nothing to do but hold up

her head until she was from sight.

Down the long corridor alone among hundreds, down the

long street alone among thousands, out into the country

she came at last.  Across the fence and field, along the old

trail once trodden by a boy's bitter agony, now stumbled a

white-faced girl, sick at heart.  She sat on a log and began

to sob in spite of her efforts at self-control.  At first it

wasphysical breakdown, later, thought came crowding.

Oh the shame, the mortification!  Why had she not

known of the tuition?  How did she happen to think that

in the city books were furnished?  Perhaps it was because

she had read they were in several states.  But why did she

not know?  Why did not her mother go with her?  Other mothers--

but when had her mother ever been or done anything at all

like other mothers?  Because she never had been it was

useless to blame her now.  Elnora realized she should have

gone to town the week before, called on some one and

learned all these things herself.  She should have remembered

how her clothing would look, before she wore it in

public places.  Now she knew, and her dreams were over. 

She must go home to feed chickens, calves, and pigs,

wear calico and coarse shoes, and with averted head,

pass a library all her life.  She sobbed again.

"For pity's sake, honey, what's the matter?" asked the

voice of the nearest neighbour, Wesley Sinton, as he

seated himself beside Elnora.  "There, there," he continued,

smearing tears all over her face in an effort to dry them. 

"Was it as bad as that, now?  Maggie has been just wild

over you all day.  She's got nervouser every minute. 

She said we were foolish to let you go.  She said your

clothes were not right, you ought not to carry that tin

pail, and that they would laugh at you.  By gum, I see

they did!"

"Oh, Uncle Wesley," sobbed the girl, "why didn't she

tell me? "

"Well, you see, Elnora, she didn't like to.  You got

such a way of holding up your head, and going through

with things.  She thought some way that you'd make it,

till you got started, and then she begun to see a hundred

things we should have done.  I reckon you hadn't reached

that building before she remembered that your skirt

should have been pleated instead of gathered, your shoes

been low, and lighter for hot September weather, and a

new hat.  Were your clothes right, Elnora?"

The girl broke into hysterical laughter.  "Right!" she cried. 

"Right!  Uncle Wesley, you should have seen me among them! 

I was a picture!  They'll never forget me.  No, they won't

get the chance, for they'll see me again to-morrow!

"Now that is what I call spunk, Elnora!  Downright grit,"

said Wesley Sinton.  "Don't you let them laugh you out. 

You've helped Margaret and me for years at harvest and

busy times, what you've earned must amount to quite a sum. 

You can get yourself a good many clothes with it."

"Don't mention clothes, Uncle Wesley," sobbed Elnora,

"I don't care now how I look.  If I don't go back all of them

will know it's because I am so poor I can't buy my books."

"Oh, I don't know as you are so dratted poor," said

Sinton meditatively.  "There are three hundred acres

of good land, with fine timber as ever grew on it."

"It takes all we can earn to pay the tax, and mother

wouldn't cut a tree for her life."

"Well then, maybe, I'll be compelled to cut one for her,"

suggested Sinton.  "Anyway, stop tearing yourself to

pieces and tell me.  If it isn't clothes, what is it?"

"It's books and tuition.  Over twenty dollars in all."

"Humph!  First time I ever knew you to be stumped by

twenty dollars, Elnora," said Sinton, patting her hand.

"It's the first time you ever knew me to want money,"

answered Elnora.  "This is different from anything that ever

happened to me.  Oh, how can I get it, Uncle Wesley?"

"Drive to town with me in the morning and I'll draw it

from the bank for you.  I owe you every cent of it."

"You know you don't owe me a penny, and I wouldn't

touch one from you, unless I really could earn it. 

For anything that's past I owe you and Aunt Margaret for

all the home life and love I've ever known.  I know how

you work, and I'll not take your money."

"Just a loan, Elnora, just a loan for a little while

until you can earn it.  You can be proud with all the

rest of the world, but there are no secrets between us,

are there, Elnora?"

"No," said Elnora, "there are none.  You and Aunt

Margaret have given me all the love there has been

in my life.  That is the one reason above all others why

you shall not give me charity.  Hand me money because

you find me crying for it!  This isn't the first time this

old trail has known tears and heartache.  All of us know

that story.  Freckles stuck to what he undertook and

won out.  I stick, too.  When Duncan moved away he

gave me all Freckles left in the swamp, and as I have

inherited his property maybe his luck will come with it. 

I won't touch your money, but I'll win some way.  First, I'm

going home and try mother.  It's just possible I could

find second-hand books, and perhaps all the tuition need

not be paid at once.  Maybe they would accept it quarterly. 

But oh, Uncle Wesley, you and Aunt Margaret keep on loving me! 

I'm so lonely, and no one else cares!"

Wesley Sinton's jaws met with a click.  He swallowed

hard on bitter words and changed what he would have

liked to say three times before it became articulate.

"Elnora," he said at last, "if it hadn't been for one

thing I'd have tried to take legal steps to make you

ours when you were three years old.  Maggie said then

it wasn't any use, but I've always held on.  You see,

I was the first man there, honey, and there are things

you see, that you can't ever make anybody else understand. 

She loved him Elnora, she just made an idol of him. 

There was that oozy green hole, with the thick

scum broke, and two or three big bubbles slowly rising

that were the breath of his body.  There she was in

spasms of agony, and beside her the great heavy log she'd

tried to throw him.  I can't ever forgive her for turning

against you, and spoiling your childhood as she has,

but I couldn't forgive anybody else for abusing her. 

Maggie has got no mercy on her, but Maggie didn't see what

I did, and I've never tried to make it very clear to her. 

It's been a little too plain for me ever since.  Whenever I

look at your mother's face, I see what she saw, so

I hold my tongue and say, in my heart, `Give her a mite

more time.'  Some day it will come.  She does love you,

Elnora.  Everybody does, honey.  It's just that she's

feeling so much, she can't express herself.  You be a

patient girl and wait a little longer.  After all, she's

your mother, and you're all she's got, but a memory, and

it might do her good to let her know that she was fooled

in that."

"It would kill her!" cried the girl swiftly.  "Uncle Wesley,

it would kill her!  What do you mean?"

"Nothing," said Wesley Sinton soothingly.  "Nothing, honey. 

That was just one of them fool things a man says,

when he is trying his best to be wise.  You see,

she loved him mightily, and they'd been married only

a year, and what she was loving was what she thought

he was.  She hadn't really got acquainted with the man yet. 

If it had been even one more year, she could have

borne it, and you'd have got justice.  Having been

a teacher she was better educated and smarter than

the rest of us, and so she was more sensitive like. 

She can't understand she was loving a dream.  So I say

it might do her good if somebody that knew, could tell

her, but I swear to gracious, I never could.  I've heard

her out at the edge of that quagmire calling in them

wild spells of hers off and on for the last sixteen years,

and imploring the swamp to give him back to her, and

I've got out of bed when I was pretty tired, and come

down to see she didn't go in herself, or harm you.  What

she feels is too deep for me.  I've got to respectin' her

grief, and I can't get over it.  Go home and tell your

ma, honey, and ask her nice and kind to help you.  If she

won't, then you got to swallow that little lump of

pride in your neck, and come to Aunt Maggie, like you

been a-coming all your life."

"I'll ask mother, but I can't take your money, Uncle

Wesley, indeed I can't.  I'll wait a year, and earn some,

and enter next year."

"There's one thing you don't consider, Elnora," said

the man earnestly.  "And that's what you are to Maggie. 

She's a little like your ma.  She hasn't given up to it,

and she's struggling on brave, but when we buried our

second little girl the light went out of Maggie's eyes, and

it's not come back.  The only time I ever see a hint of

it is when she thinks she's done something that makes you

happy, Elnora.  Now, you go easy about refusing her

anything she wants to do for you.  There's times in this

world when it's our bounden duty to forget ourselves, and

think what will help other people.  Young woman, you

owe me and Maggie all the comfort we can get out of you. 

There's the two of our own we can't ever do anything for. 

Don't you get the idea into your head that a fool thing

you call pride is going to cut us out of all the pleasure

we have in life beside ourselves."

"Uncle Wesley, you are a dear," said Elnora.  "Just a dear! 

If I can't possibly get that money any way else on earth,

I'll come and borrow it of you, and then I'll pay it

back if I must dig ferns from the swamp and sell them

from door to door in the city.  I'll even plant them,

so that they will be sure to come up in the spring.  I have

been sort of panic stricken all day and couldn't think. 

I can gather nuts and sell them.  Freckles sold moths

and butterflies, and I've a lot collected.  Of course,

I am going back to-morrow!  I can find a way to get the books. 

Don't you worry about me.  I am all right!

"Now, what do you think of that?" inquired Wesley

Sinton of the swamp in general.  "Here's our Elnora

come back to stay.  Head high and right as a trivet! 

You've named three ways in three minutes that you

could earn ten dollars, which I figure would be enough,

to start you.  Let's go to supper and stop worrying!"

Elnora unlocked the case, took out the pail, put the

napkin in it, pulled the ribbon from her hair, binding it

down tightly again and followed to the road.  From afar

she could see her mother in the doorway.  She blinked

her eyes, and tried to smile as she answered Wesley

Sinton, and indeed she did feel better.  She knew now

what she had to expect, where to go, and what to do. 

Get the books she must; when she had them, she would show

those city girls and boys how to prepare and recite lessons,

how to walk with a brave heart; and they could show her

how to wear pretty clothes and have good times.

As she neared the door her mother reached for the pail. 

"I forgot to tell you to bring home your scraps for

the chickens," she said.

Elnora entered.  "There weren't any scraps, and I'm

hungry again as I ever was in my life."

"I thought likely you would be," said Mrs. Comstock,

"and so I got supper ready.  We can eat first, and do the

work afterward.  What kept you so?  I expected you an

hour ago."

Elnora looked into her mother's face and smiled.  It was

a queer sort of a little smile, and would have reached

the depths with any normal mother.

"I see you've been bawling," said Mrs. Comstock. 

"I thought you'd get your fill in a hurry.  That's why

I wouldn't go to any expense.  If we keep out of the poor-

house we have to cut the corners close.  It's likely this

Brushwood road tax will eat up all we've saved in years. 

Where the land tax is to come from I don't know.  It gets

bigger every year.  If they are going to dredge the swamp

ditch again they'll just have to take the land to pay for it. 

I can't, that's all!  We'll get up early in the morning and

gather and hull the beans for winter, and put in the rest

of the day hoeing the turnips."

Elnora again smiled that pitiful smile.

"Do you think I didn't know that I was funny and

would be laughed at?" she asked.

"Funny?" cried Mrs. Comstock hotly.

"Yes, funny!  A regular caricature," answered Elnora. 

"No one else wore calico, not even one other.  No one

else wore high heavy shoes, not even one.  No one

else had such a funny little old hat; my hair was not

right, my ribbon invisible compared with the others,

I did not know where to go, or what to do, and I had

no books.  What a spectacle I made for them!" 

Elnora laughed nervously at her own picture.  "But there

are always two sides!  The professor said in the algebra

class that he never had a better solution and explanation

than mine of the proposition he gave me, which scored

one for me in spite of my clothes."

"Well, I wouldn't brag on myself!"

"That was poor taste," admitted Elnora.  "But, you see,

it is a case of whistling to keep up my courage. 

I honestly could see that I would have looked just as

well as the rest of them if I had been dressed as

they were.  We can't afford that, so I have to find

something else to brace me.  It was rather bad, mother!"

"Well, I'm glad you got enough of it!"

"Oh, but I haven't" hurried in Elnora.  "I just got

a start.  The hardest is over.  To-morrow they won't

be surprised.  They will know what to expect.  I am

sorry to hear about the dredge.  Is it really going through?"

"Yes.  I got my notification today.  The tax will

be something enormous.  I don't know as I can spare

you, even if you are willing to be a laughing-stock for

the town."

With every bite Elnora's courage returned, for she was

a healthy young thing.

"You've heard about doing evil that good might come

from it," she said.  "Well, mother mine, it's something

like that with me.  I'm willing to bear the hard part

to pay for what I'll learn.  Already I have selected the

ward building in which I shall teach in about four years. 

I am going to ask for a room with a south exposure so

that the flowers and moths I take in from the swamp

to show the children will do well."

"You little idiot!" said Mrs. Comstock.  "How are

you going to pay your expenses?"

"Now that is just what I was going to ask you!" said Elnora. 

"You see, I have had two startling pieces of news to-day. 

I did not know I would need any money.  I thought the city

furnished the books, and there is an out-of-town tuition, also. 

I need ten dollars in the morning.  Will you please let me have it?"

"Ten dollars!" cried Mrs. Comstock.  "Ten dollars! 

Why don't you say a hundred and be done with it!  I could

get one as easy as the other.  I told you!  I told you

I couldn't raise a cent.  Every year expenses grow bigger

and bigger.  I told you not to ask for money!"

"I never meant to," replied Elnora.  "I thought

clothes were all I needed and I could bear them. 

I never knew about buying books and tuition."

"Well, I did!" said Mrs. Comstock.  "I knew what

you would run into!  But you are so bull-dog stubborn,

and so set in your way, I thought I would just let you

try the world a little and see how you liked it!"

Elnora pushed back her chair and looked at her mother.

"Do you mean to say," she demanded, "that you knew,

when you let me go into a city classroom and reveal the

fact before all of them that I expected to have my books

handed out to me; do you mean to say that you knew I had

to pay for them?"

Mrs. Comstock evaded the direct question.

"Anybody but an idiot mooning over a book or wasting

time prowling the woods would have known you had

to pay.  Everybody has to pay for everything.  Life is

made up of pay, pay, pay!  It's always and forever pay! 

If you don't pay one way you do another!  Of course,

I knew you had to pay.  Of course, I knew you would come

home blubbering!  But you don't get a penny!  I haven't

one cent, and can't get one!  Have your way if you are

determined, but I think you will find the road somewhat rocky."

"Swampy, you mean, mother," corrected Elnora.  She arose

white and trembling.  "Perhaps some day God will teach

me how to understand you.  He knows I do not now. 

You can't possibly realize just what you let me go

through to-day, or how you let me go, but I'll tell you this: 

You understand enough that if you had the money, and

would offer it to me, I wouldn't touch it now.  And I'll

tell you this much more.  I'll get it myself.  I'll raise it,

and do it some honest way.  I am going back to-morrow,

the next day, and the next.  You need not come out, I'll do

the night work, and hoe the turnips."

It was ten o'clock when the chickens, pigs, and cattle

were fed, the turnips hoed, and a heap of bean vines was

stacked beside the back door.

CHAPTER II

WHEREIN WESLEY AND MARGARET GO SHOPPING,

AND ELNORA'S WARDROBE IS REPLENISHED

Wesley Sinton walked down the road half a

mile and turned at the lane leading to his home.

His heart was hot and filled with indignation. 

He had told Elnora he did not blame her mother,

but he did.  His wife met him at the door.

"Did you see anything of Elnora?" she questioned.

"Most too much, Maggie," he answered.  "What do

you say to going to town?  There's a few things has

to be got right away."

"Where did you see her, Wesley?"

"Along the old Limberlost trail, my girl, torn to

pieces sobbing.  Her courage always has been fine, but the

thing she met to-day was too much for her.  We ought to have

known better than to let her go that way.  It wasn't only

clothes; there were books, and entrance fees for out-of-

town people, that she didn't know about; while there must

have been jeers, whispers, and laughing.  Maggie, I feel

as if I'd been a traitor to those girls of ours.  I ought to

have gone in and seen about this school business. 

Don't cry, Maggie.  Get me some supper, and I'll hitch up

and see what we can do now."

"What can we do, Wesley?

"I don't just know.  But we've got to do something. 

Kate Comstock will be a handful, while Elnora will be

two, but between us we must see that the girl is not too

hard pressed about money, and that she is dressed so she

is not ridiculous.  She's saved us the wages of a woman

many a day, can't you make her some decent dresses?"

"Well, I'm not just what you call expert, but I could

beat Kate Comstock all to pieces.  I know that skirts

should be pleated to the band instead of gathered, and full

enough to sit in, and short enough to walk in.  I could try. 

There are patterns for sale.  Let's go right away, Wesley."

"Set me a bit of supper, while I hitch up."

Margaret built a fire, made coffee, and fried ham and eggs. 

She set out pie and cake and had enough for a hungry

man by the time the carriage was at the door, but she

had no appetite.  She dressed while Wesley ate, put away

the food while he dressed, and then they drove toward

the city through the beautiful September evening,

and as they went they planned for Elnora.  The trouble

was, not whether they were generous enough to buy what

she needed, but whether she would accept their purchases,

and what her mother would say.

They went to a drygoods store and when a clerk asked

what they wanted to see neither of them knew, so they

stepped aside and held a whispered consultation. 

"What had we better get, Wesley?"

"Dresses," said Wesley promptly,

"But how many dresses, and what kind?"

"Blest if I know!" exclaimed Wesley.  "I thought you

would manage that.  I know about some things I'm going

to get."

At that instant several high school girls came into the

store and approached them.

"There!" exclaimed Wesley breathlessly.  "There, Maggie! 

Like them!  That's what she needs!  Buy like they have!"

Margaret stared.  What did they wear?  They were

rapidly passing; they seemed to have so much, and she

could not decide so quickly.  Before she knew it she was

among them.

"I beg your pardon, but won't you wait one minute?"

she asked.

The girls stopped with wondering faces.

"It's your clothes," explained Mrs. Sinton.  "You look

just beautiful to me.  You look exactly as I should have

wanted to see my girls.  They both died of diphtheria

when they were little, but they had yellow hair, dark eyes

and pink cheeks, and everybody thought they were lovely. 

If they had lived, they'd been near your age now, and I'd

want them to look like you."

There was sympathy on every girl face.

"Why thank you!" said one of them.  "We are very

sorry for you."

"Of course you are," said Margaret.  "Everybody always

has been.  And because I can't ever have the joy of

a mother in thinking for my girls and buying pretty things

for them, there is nothing left for me, but to do what I can

for some one who has no mother to care for her.  I know

a girl, who would be just as pretty as any of you, if she had

the clothes, but her mother does not think about her, so I

mother her some myself."

"She must be a lucky girl," said another.

"Oh, she loves me," said Margaret, "and I love her. 

I want her to look just like you do.  Please tell me

about your clothes.  Are these the dresses and hats you

wear to school?  What kind of goods are they, and where

do you buy them?"

The girls began to laugh and cluster around Margaret. 

Wesley strode down the store with his head high through

pride in her, but his heart was sore over the memory of two

little faces under Brushwood sod.  He inquired his way to

the shoe department.

"Why, every one of us have on gingham or linen

dresses," they said, "and they are our school clothes."

For a few moments there was a babel of laughing voices

explaining to the delighted Margaret that school dresses

should be bright and pretty, but simple and plain, and

until cold weather they should wash.

"I'll tell you," said Ellen Brownlee, "my father owns

this store, I know all the clerks.  I'll take you to Miss

Hartley.  You tell her just how much you want to spend,

and what you want to buy, and she will know how to get

the most for your money.  I've heard papa say she was

the best clerk in the store for people who didn't know

precisely what they wanted."

"That's the very thing," agreed Margaret.  "But before

you go, tell me about your hair.  Elnora's hair is

bright and wavy, but yours is silky as hackled flax. 

How do you do it?"

"Elnora?" asked four girls in concert.

"Yes, Elnora is the name of the girl I want these things for."

"Did she come to the high school to-day?" questioned

one of them.

"Was she in your classes?" demanded Margaret without reply.

Four girls stood silent and thought fast.  Had there

been a strange girl among them, and had she been overlooked

and passed by with indifference, because she was so

very shabby?  If she had appeared as much better than

they, as she had looked worse, would her reception have

been the same?

"There was a strange girl from the country in the Freshman

class to-day," said Ellen Brownlee, "and her name was Elnora."

"That was the girl," said Margaret.

"Are her people so very poor?" questioned Ellen.

"No, not poor at all, come to think of it," answered Margaret. 

"It's a peculiar case.  Mrs. Comstock had a great trouble

and she let it change her whole life and make a different

woman of her.  She used to be lovely; now she is forever

saving and scared to death for fear they will go to the

poorhouse; but there is a big farm, covered with lots

of good timber.  The taxes are high for women who can't

manage to clear and work the land.  There ought to be

enough to keep two of them in good shape all their lives,

if they only knew how to do it.  But no one ever told

Kate Comstock anything, and never will, for she won't listen. 

All she does is droop all day, and walk the edge of the

swamp half the night, and neglect Elnora.  If you girls

would make life just a little easier for her it would

be the finest thing you ever did."

All of them promised they would.

"Now tell me about your hair," persisted Margaret Sinton.

So they took her to a toilet counter, and she bought the

proper hair soap, also a nail file, and cold cream, for use

after windy days.  Then they left her with the experienced

clerk, and when at last Wesley found her she was loaded with

bundles and the light of other days was in her beautiful eyes. 

Wesley also carried some packages.

"Did you get any stockings?" he whispered.

"No, I didn't," she said.  "I was so interested in dresses

and hair ribbons and a--a hat----" she hesitated and

glanced at Wesley.  "Of course, a hat!" prompted

Wesley.  "That I forgot all about those horrible shoes. 

She's got to have decent shoes, Wesley."

"Sure!" said Wesley.  "She's got decent shoes.  But

the man said some brown stockings ought to go with them. 

Take a peep, will you!"

Wesley opened a box and displayed a pair of thick-

soled, beautifully shaped brown walking shoes of low

cut.  Margaret cried out with pleasure.

"But do you suppose they are the right size, Wesley?

What did you get?"

"I just said for a girl of sixteen with a slender foot."

"Well, that's about as near as I could come.  If they

don't fit when she tries them, we will drive straight in

and change them.  Come on now, let's get home."

All the way they discussed how they should give Elnora

their purchases and what Mrs. Comstock would say.

"I am afraid she will be awful mad," said Margaret.

"She'll just rip!" replied Wesley graphically.  "But if

she wants to leave the raising of her girl to the neighbours,

she needn't get fractious if they take some pride in doing

a good job.  From now on I calculate Elnora shall go

to school; and she shall have all the clothes and books

she needs, if I go around on the back of Kate Comstock's

land and cut a tree, or drive off a calf to pay for them. 

Why I know one tree she owns that would put Elnora in

heaven for a year.  Just think of it, Margaret!  It's not

fair.  One-third of what is there belongs to Elnora by

law, and if Kate Comstock raises a row I'll tell her so,

and see that the girl gets it.  You go to see Kate in the

morning, and I'll go with you.  Tell her you want Elnora's

pattern, that you are going to make her a dress, for

helping us.  And sort of hint at a few more things. 

If Kate balks, I'll take a hand and settle her.  I'll go

to law for Elnora's share of that land and sell enough to

educate her."

"Why, Wesley Sinton, you're perfectly wild."

"I'm not!  Did you ever stop to think that such cases are

so frequent there have been laws made to provide for them? 

I can bring it up in court and force Kate to educate

Elnora, and board and clothe her till she's of age,

and then she can take her share."

"Wesley, Kate would go crazy!"

"She's crazy now.  The idea of any mother living with as

sweet a girl as Elnora. and letting her suffer till I find

her crying like a funeral.  It makes me fighting mad. 

All uncalled for.  Not a grain of sense in it.  I've offered

and offered to oversee clearing her land and working

her fields.  Let her sell a good tree, or a few acres. 

Something is going to be done, right now.  Elnora's been

fairly happy up to this, but to spoil the school life she's

planned, is to ruin all her life.  I won't have it! If Elnora

won't take these things, so help me, I'll tell her

what she is worth, and loan her the money and she can

pay me back when she comes of age.  I am going to have

it out with Kate Comstock in the morning.  Here we are! 

You open up what you got while I put away the horses,

and then I'll show you."

When Wesley came from the barn Margaret had four

pieces of crisp gingham, a pale blue, a pink, a gray with

green stripes and a rich brown and blue plaid.  On each

of them lay a yard and a half of wide ribbon to match. 

There were handkerchiefs and a brown leather belt.  In her

hands she held a wide-brimmed tan straw hat, having a

high crown banded with velvet strips each of which fastened

with a tiny gold buckle.

"It looks kind of bare now," she explained.  "It had

three quills on it here."

"Did you have them taken off?" asked Wesley.

"Yes, I did.  The price was two and a half for the

hat, and those things were a dollar and a half apiece. 

I couldn't pay that."

"It does seem considerable," admitted Wesley, "but

will it look right without them?"

"No, it won't!" said Margaret.  "It's going to have

quills on it.  Do you remember those beautiful peacock

wing feathers that Phoebe Simms gave me?  Three of

them go on just where those came off, and nobody will

ever know the difference.  They match the hat to a

moral, and they are just a little longer and richer than

the ones that I had taken off.  I was wondering whether

I better sew them on to-night while I remember how they

set, or wait till morning."

"Don't risk it!" exclaimed Wesley anxiously.  "Don't you

risk it!  Sew them on right now!"

"Open your bundles, while I get the thread," said Margaret.

Wesley unwrapped the shoes.  Margaret took them up

and pinched the leather and stroked them.

"My, but they are fine!" she cried.

Wesley picked up one and slowly turned it in his big hands. 

He glanced at his foot and back to the shoe.

"It's a little bit of a thing, Margaret," he said softly. 

"Like as not I'll have to take it back.  It seems as if it

couldn't fit."

"It seems as if it didn't dare do anything else," said Margaret. 

"That's a happy little shoe to get the chance to carry as

fine a girl as Elnora to high school.  Now what's in the

other box?"

Wesley looked at Margaret doubtfully.

"Why," he said, "you know there's going to be rainy

days, and those things she has now ain't fit for anything

but to drive up the cows----"

"Wesley, did you get high shoes, too?"

"Well, she ought to have them!  The man said he

would make them cheaper if I took both pairs at once."

Margaret laughed aloud.  "Those will do her past

Christmas," she exulted.  "What else did you buy?"

"Well sir," said Wesley, "I saw something to-day. 

You told me about Kate getting that tin pail for Elnora

to carry to high school and you said you told her it was

a shame.  I guess Elnora was ashamed all right, for

to-night she stopped at the old case Duncan gave her,

and took out that pail, where it had been all day, and

put a napkin inside it.  Coming home she confessed

she was half starved because she hid her dinner under

a culvert, and a tramp took it.  She hadn't had a bite

to eat the whole day.  But she never complained at all,

she was pleased that she hadn't lost the napkin.  So I

just inquired around till I found this, and I think it's

about the ticket."

Wesley opened the package and laid a brown leather

lunch box on the table.  "Might be a couple of books,

or drawing tools or most anything that's neat and genteel. 

You see, it opens this way."

It did open, and inside was a space for sandwiches,

a little porcelain box for cold meat or fried chicken,

another for salad, a glass with a lid which screwed on, held

by a ring in a corner, for custard or jelly, a flask for tea or

milk, a beautiful little knife, fork, and spoon fastened in

holders, and a place for a napkin.

Margaret was almost crying over it.

"How I'd love to fill it!" she exclaimed.

"Do it the first time, just to show Kate Comstock

what love is!" said Wesley.  "Get up early in the morning

and make one of those dresses to-morrow.  Can't you

make a plain gingham dress in a day?  I'll pick a chicken,

and you fry it and fix a little custard for the cup,

and do it up brown.  Go on, Maggie, you do it!"

"I never can," said Margaret.  "I am slow as the

itch about sewing, and these are not going to be plain

dresses when it comes to making them.  There are going

to be edgings of plain green, pink, and brown to the bias

strips, and tucks and pleats around the hips, fancy belts

and collars, and all of it takes time."

"Then Kate Comstock's got to help," said Wesley.  "Can the

two of you make one, and get that lunch to-morrow?"

"Easy, but she'll never do it!"

"You see if she doesn't!" said Wesley.  "You get

up and cut it out, and soon as Elnora is gone I'll go after

Kate myself.  She'll take what I'll say better alone. 

But she'll come, and she'll help make the dress.  These other

things are our Christmas gifts to Elnora.  She'll no doubt

need them more now than she will then, and we can give

them just as well.  That's yours, and this is mine, or

whichever way you choose."

Wesley untied a good brown umbrella and shook out

the folds of a long, brown raincoat.  Margaret dropped

the hat, arose and took the coat.  She tried it on, felt it,

cooed over it and matched it with the umbrella.

"Did it look anything like rain to-night?" she inquired

so anxiously that Wesley laughed.

"And this last bundle?" she said, dropping back in her

chair, the coat still over her shoulders.

"I couldn't buy this much stuff for any other woman

and nothing for my own," said Wesley.  "It's Christmas

for you, too, Margaret!"  He shook out fold after fold

of soft gray satiny goods that would look lovely against

Margaret's pink cheeks and whitening hair.

"Oh, you old darling!" she exclaimed, and fled sobbing

into his arms.

But she soon dried her eyes, raked together the coals

in the cooking stove and boiled one of the dress patterns

in salt water for half an hour.  Wesley held the lamp

while she hung the goods on the line to dry.  Then she

set the irons on the stove so they would be hot the first

thing in the morning.

CHAPTER III

WHEREIN ELNORA VISITS THE BIRD WOMAN,

AND OPENS A BANK ACCOUNT

Four o'clock the following morning Elnora

was shelling beans.  At six she fed the chickens

and pigs, swept two of the rooms of the cabin,

built a fire, and put on the kettle for breakfast.  Then she

climbed the narrow stairs to the attic she had occupied since

a very small child, and dressed in the hated shoes and

brown calico, plastered down her crisp curls, ate what

breakfast she could, and pinning on her hat started for town.

"There is no sense in your going for an hour yet,"

said her mother.

"I must try to discover some way to earn those books,"

replied Elnora.  "I am perfectly positive I shall not

find them lying beside the road wrapped in tissue paper,

and tagged with my name."

She went toward the city as on yesterday.  Her perplexity

as to where tuition and books were to come from was

worse but she did not feel quite so badly.  She never

again would have to face all of it for the first time. 

There had been times yesterday when she had prayed to

be hidden, or to drop dead, and neither had happened. 

"I believe the best way to get an answer to prayer is

to work for it," muttered Elnora grimly.

Again she followed the trail to the swamp, rearranged

her hair and left the tin pail.  This time she folded a couple

of sandwiches in the napkin, and tied them in a neat light

paper parcel which she carried in her hand.  Then she

hurried along the road to Onabasha and found a book-store. 

There she asked the prices of the list of books that

she needed, and learned that six dollars would not quite

supply them.  She anxiously inquired for second-hand

books, but was told that the only way to secure them was

from the last year's Freshmen.  Just then Elnora felt that

she positively could not approach any of those she supposed

to be Sophomores and ask to buy their old books. 

The only balm the girl could see for the humiliation of

yesterday was to appear that day with a set of new books.

"Do you wish these?" asked the clerk hurriedly, for the

store was rapidly filling with school children wanting

anything from a dictionary to a pen.

"Yes," gasped Elnora, "Oh, yes!  But I cannot pay for

them just now.  Please let me take them, and I will pay

for them on Friday, or return them as perfect as they are. 

Please trust me for them a few days."

"I'll ask the proprietor," he said.  When he came back

Elnora knew the answer before he spoke.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but Mr. Hann doesn't recognize

your name.  You are not a customer of ours, and he feels

that he can't take the risk."

Elnora clumped out of the store, the thump of her heavy,

shoes beating as a hammer on her brain.  She tried two

other dealers with the same result, and then in sick despair

came into the street.  What could she  do?  She was too

frightened to think.  Should she stay from school that

day and canvass the homes appearing to belong to the

wealthy, and try to sell beds of wild ferns, as she had

suggested to Wesley Sinton?  What would she dare ask for

bringing in and planting a clump of ferns?  How could she

carry them?  Would people buy them?  She slowly moved

past the hotel and then glanced around to see if there

were a clock anywhere, for she felt sure the young people

passing her constantly were on their way to school.

There it stood in a bank window in big black letters

staring straight at her:

WANTED:  CATERPILLARS, COCOONS, CHRYSALIDES,

PUPAE CASES, BUTTERFLIES, MOTHS, INDIAN RELICS

OF ALL KINDS.  HIGHEST SCALE OF PRICES PAID IN CASH

Elnora caught the wicket at the cashier's desk with both

hands to brace herself against disappointment.

"Who is it wants to buy cocoons, butterflies, and

moths?" she panted.

"The Bird Woman," answered the cashier.  "Have you

some for sale?"

"I have some, I do not know if they are what she would want."

"Well, you had better see her," said the cashier.  "Do you

know where she lives?"

"Yes," said Elnora.  "Would you tell me the time?"

"Twenty-one after eight," was the answer.

She had nine minutes to reach the auditorium or be late. 

Should she go to school, or to the Bird Woman?  Several girls

passed her walking swiftly and she remembered their faces. 

They were hurrying to school.  Elnora caught the infection. 

She would see the Bird Woman at noon.  Algebra came first,

and that professor was kind.  Perhaps she could slip to the

superintendent and ask him for a book for the next lesson,

and at noon--"Oh, dear Lord make it come true," prayed Elnora,

at noon possibly she could sell some of those wonderful

shining-winged things she had been collecting all her life

around the outskirts of the Limberlost.

As she went down the long hall she noticed the professor

of mathematics standing in the door of his recitation room. 

When she passed him he smiled and spoke to her.

"I have been watching for you," he said, and Elnora

stopped bewildered.

"For me?" she questioned.

"Yes," said Professor Henley.  "Step inside."

Elnora followed him into the room and closed the door

behind them.

"At teachers' meeting last evening, one of the professors

mentioned that a pupil had betrayed in class that she had

expected her books to be furnished by the city.  I thought

possibly it was you.  Was it?"

"Yes," breathed Elnora.

"That being the case," said Professor Henley, "it just

occurred to me as you had expected that, you might require

a little time to secure them, and you are too fine a

mathematician to fall behind for want of supplies.  So I

telephoned one of our Sophomores to bring her last year's

books this morning.  I am sorry to say they are somewhat

abused, but the text is all here.  You can have them for

two dollars, and pay when you are ready.  Would you

care to take them?"

Elnora sat suddenly, because she could not stand another instant. 

She reached both hands for the books, and said never a word. 

The professor was silent also.  At last Eleanor arose,

hugging those books to her heart as a mother clasps a baby.

"One thing more," said the professor.  "You may pay

your tuition quarterly.  You need not bother about the

first instalment this month.  Any time in October will do."

It seemed as if Elnora's gasp of relief must have reached

the soles of her brogans.

"Did any one ever tell you how beautiful you are!" she cried.

As the professor was lank, tow-haired and so near-

sighted, that he peered at his pupils through spectacles,

no one ever had.

"No," said Professor Henley, "I've waited some time

for that; for which reason I shall appreciate it all the more. 

Come now, or we shall be late for opening exercises."

So Elnora entered the auditorium a second time.  Her face was

like the brightest dawn that ever broke over the Limberlost. 

No matter about the lumbering shoes and skimpy dress. 

No matter about anything, she had the books.  She could

take them home.  In her garret she could commit them to

memory, if need be.  She could prove that clothes were

not all.  If the Bird Woman did not want any of the many

different kinds of specimens she had collected, she was

quite sure now she could sell ferns, nuts, and a great

many things.  Then, too, a girl made a place for her

that morning, and several smiled and bowed.  Elnora forgot

everything save her books, and that she was where she

could use them intelligently--everything except one

little thing away back in her head.  Her mother had

known about the books and the tuition, and had not told

her when she agreed to her coming.

At noon Elnora took her little parcel of lunch and started

to the home of the Bird Woman.  She must know about

the specimens first and then she would walk to the suburbs

somewhere and eat a few bites.  She dropped the heavy

iron knocker on the door of a big red log cabin, and

her heart thumped at the resounding stroke.

"Is the Bird Woman at home?" she asked of the maid.

"She is at lunch," was the answer.

"Please ask her if she will see a girl from the Limberlost

about some moths?" inquired Elnora.

"I never need ask, if it's moths," laughed the girl. 

"Orders are to bring any one with specimens right in. 

Come this way."

Elnora followed down the hall and entered a long room with

high panelled wainscoting, old English fireplace with an

overmantel and closets of peculiar china filling the corners. 

At a bare table of oak, yellow as gold, sat a woman Elnora

often had watched and followed covertly around the Limberlost. 

The Bird Woman was holding out a hand of welcome.

I heard!" she laughed.  "A little pasteboard box, or

just the mere word `specimen,' passes you at my door. 

If it is moths I hope you have hundreds.  I've been very

busy all summer and unable to collect, and I need so many. 

Sit down and lunch with me, while we talk it over. 

From the Limberlost, did you say?"

"I live near the swamp," replied Elnora.  "Since it's

so cleared I dare go around the edge in daytime, though

we are all afraid at night."

"What have you collected?" asked the Bird Woman,

as she helped Elnora to sandwiches unlike any she ever

before had tasted, salad that seemed to be made of many

familiar things, and a cup of hot chocolate that would have

delighted any hungry schoolgirl.

"I am afraid I am bothering you for nothing, and imposing

on you," she said.  "That 'collected' frightens me. 

I've only gathered.  I always loved everything outdoors,

so I made friends and playmates of them.  When I learned

that the moths die so soon, I saved them especially,

because there seemed no wickedness in it."

"I have thought the same thing," said the Bird

Woman encouragingly.  Then because the girl could

not eat until she learned about the moths, the Bird

Woman asked Elnora if she knew what kinds she had.

"Not all of them," answered Elnora.  "Before Mr.

Duncan moved away he often saw me near the edge of

the swamp and he showed me the box he had fixed for

Freckles, and gave me the key.  There were some books

and things, so from that time on I studied and tried to

take moths right, but I am afraid they are not what you want."

"Are they the big ones that fly mostly in June nights?"

asked the Bird Woman.

"Yes," said Elnora.  "Big gray ones with reddish

markings, pale blue-green, yellow with lavender, and red

and yellow."

"What do you mean by `red and yellow?'" asked the

Bird Woman so quickly that the girl almost jumped

"Not exactly red," explained Elnora, with tremulous voice. 

"A reddish, yellowish brown, with canary-coloured spots

and gray lines on their wings."

"How many of them?"  It was the same quick question.

"I had over two hundred eggs," said Elnora, "but

some of them didn't hatch, and some of the caterpillars

died, but there must be at least a hundred perfect ones."

"Perfect!  How perfect?" cried the Bird Woman.

"I mean whole wings, no down gone, and all their legs

and antennae," faltered Elnora.

"Young woman, that's the rarest moth in America,"

said the Bird Woman solemnly.  "If you have a hundred

of them, they are worth a hundred dollars according to

my list.  I can use all that are not damaged."

"What if they are not pinned right," quavered Elnora.

"If they are perfect, that does not make the

slightest difference.  I know how to soften them so

that I can put them into any shape I choose. 

Where are they?  When may I see them?"

"They are in Freckles's old case in the Limberlost,"

said Elnora.  "I couldn't carry many for fear of breaking

them, but I could bring a few after school."

"You come here at four," said the Bird Woman, "and

we will drive out with some specimen boxes, and a price

list, and see what you have to sell.  Are they your very own? 

Are you free to part with them?"

"They are mine," said Elnora.  "No one but God

knows I have them.  Mr. Duncan gave me the books

and the box.  He told Freckles about me, and Freckles

told him to give me all he left.  He said for me to stick

to the swamp and be brave, and my hour would come, and

it has!  I know most of them are all right, and oh, I

do need the money!"

"Could you tell me?" asked the Bird Woman softly.

"You see the swamp and all the fields around it are so

full," explained Elnora.  "Every day I felt smaller and

smaller, and I wanted to know more and more, and pretty

soon I grew desperate, just as Freckles did.  But I am

better off than he was, for I have his books, and I have a

mother; even if she doesn't care for me as other girls'

mothers do for them, it's better than no one."

The Bird Woman's glance fell, for the girl was not

conscious of how much she was revealing.  Her eyes

were fixed on a black pitcher filled with goldenrod in

the centre of the table and she was saying what she thought.

"As long as I could go to the Brushwood school I was

happy, but I couldn't go further just when things were

the most interesting, so I was determined I'd come to

high school and mother wouldn't consent.  You see

there's plenty of land, but father was drowned when I

was a baby, and mother and I can't make money as men do. 

The taxes are higher every year, and she said it was

too expensive.  I wouldn't give her any rest, until at

last she bought me this dress, and these shoes and I came. 

It was awful!"

"Do you live in that beautiful cabin at the northwest

end of the swamp?" asked the Bird Woman.

"Yes," said Elnora.

"I remember the place and a story about it, now. 

You entered the high school yesterday?"

"Yes."

"It was rather bad?"

"Rather bad!" echoed Elnora. 

The Bird Woman laughed.

"You can't tell me anything about that," she said. 

"I once entered a city school straight from the country. 

My dress was brown calico, and my shoes were heavy."

The tears began to roll down Elnora's cheeks. 

"Did they----?" she faltered.

"They did!" said the Bird Woman.  "All of it.  I am

sure they did not miss one least little thing."

Then she wiped away some tears that began coursing

her cheeks, and laughed at the same time.

"Where are they now?" asked Elnora suddenly.

"They are widely scattered, but none of them have

attained heights out of range.  Some of the rich are

poor, and some of the poor are rich.  Some of the brightest

died insane, and some of the dullest worked out high

positions; some of the very worst to bear have gone out,

and I frequently hear from others.  Now I am here,

able to remember it, and mingle laughter with what

used to be all tears; for every day I have my beautiful

work, and almost every day God sends some one like you

to help me.  What is your name, my girl?"

"Elnora Comstock," answered Elnora.  "Yesterday on the

board it changed to Cornstock, and for a minute I

thought I'd die, but I can laugh over that already."

The Bird Woman arose and kissed her.  "Finish your

lunch," she said, "and I will bring my price lists, and

make a memorandum of what you think you have, so I

will know how many boxes to prepare.  And remember this: 

What you are lies with you.  If you are lazy, and

accept your lot, you may live in it.  If you are willing

to work, you can write your name anywhere you choose,

among the only ones who live beyond the grave in this

world, the people who write books that help, make exquisite

music, carve statues, paint pictures, and work for others. 

Never mind the calico dress, and the coarse shoes. 

Work at your books, and before long you will hear

yesterday's tormentors boasting that they were once

classmates of yours.  `I could a tale unfold'----!"

She laughingly left the room and Elnora sat thinking,

until she remembered how hungry she was, so she ate the

food, drank the hot chocolate and began to feel better.

Then the Bird Woman came back and showed Elnora a

long printed slip giving a list of graduated prices for

moths, butterflies, and dragonflies.

"Oh, do you want them!" exulted Elnora.  "I have

a few and I can get more by the thousand, with every

colour in the world on their wings."

"Yes," said the Bird Woman, "I will buy them, also the

big moth caterpillars that are creeping everywhere now,

and the cocoons that they will spin just about this time. 

I have a sneaking impression that the mystery, wonder,

and the urge of their pure beauty, are going to force me

to picture and paint our moths and put them into a book

for all the world to see and know.  We Limberlost people

must not be selfish with the wonders God has given to us. 

We must share with those poor cooped-up city people the

best we can.  To send them a beautiful book, that is the

way, is it not, little new friend of mine?"

"Yes, oh yes!" cried Elnora.  "And please God they

find a way to earn the money to buy the books, as I have

those I need so badly."

"I will pay good prices for all the moths you can find,"

said the Bird Woman, "because you see I exchange them

with foreign collectors.  I want a complete series of the

moths of America to trade with a German scientist,

another with a man in India, and another in Brazil. 

Others I can exchange with home collectors for those of

California and Canada, so you see I can use all you can

raise, or find.  The banker will buy stone axes, arrow

points, and Indian pipes.  There was a teacher from the

city grade schools here to-day for specimens.  There is

a fund to supply the ward buildings.  I'll help you get

in touch with that.  They want leaves of different trees,

flowers, grasses, moths, insects, birds' nests and anything

about birds."

Elnora's eyes were blazing.  "Had I better go back to

school or open a bank account and begin being a millionaire? 

Uncle Wesley and I have a bushel of arrow points gathered,

a stack of axes, pipes, skin-dressing tools, tubes and mortars. 

I don't know how I ever shall wait three hours."

"You must go, or you will be late," said the Bird Woman. 

"I will be ready at four."

After school closed Elnora, seated beside the Bird

Woman, drove to Freckles's room in the Limberlost.  One at

a time the beautiful big moths were taken from the

interior of the old black case.  Not a fourth of them could

be moved that night and it was almost dark when the last

box was closed, the list figured, and into Elnora's trembling

fingers were paid fifty-nine dollars and sixteen cents. 

Elnora clasped the money closely.

"Oh you beautiful stuff!" she cried.  "You are going to

buy the books, pay the tuition, and take me to high school."

Then because she was a woman, she sat on a log and

looked at her shoes.  Long after the Bird Woman drove

away Elnora remained.  She had her problem, and it was

a big one.  If she told her mother, would she take the

money to pay the taxes?  If she did not tell her, how could

she account for the books, and things for which she would

spend it.  At last she counted out what she needed for

the next day, placed the remainder in the farthest corner

of the case, and locked the door.  She then filled the front

of her skirt from a heap of arrow points beneath the case

and started home.

CHAPTER IV

WHEREIN THE SINTONS ARE DISAPPOINTED,

AND MRS. COMSTOCK LEARNS THAT SHE CAN LAUGH

With the first streak of red above the Limberlost

Margaret Sinton was busy with the gingham and the

intricate paper pattern she had purchased. 

Wesley cooked the breakfast and worked until he thought

Elnora would be gone, then he started to bring her mother.

"Now you be mighty careful," cautioned Margaret. 

"I don't know how she will take it."

"I don't either," said Wesley philosophically, "but

she's got to take it some way.  That dress has to be

finished by school time in the morning."

Wesley had not slept well that night.  He had been so

busy framing diplomatic speeches to make to Mrs. Comstock

that sleep had little chance with him.  Every step nearer

to her he approached his position seemed less enviable. 

By the time he reached the front gate and started down

the walk between the rows of asters and lady slippers

he was perspiring, and every plausible and convincing

speech had fled his brain.  Mrs. Comstock helped him. 

She met him at the door.

"Good morning," she said.  "Did Margaret send you

for something?"

"Yes," said Wesley.  "She's got a job that's too big

for her, and she wants you to help."

"Of course I will," said Mrs. Comstock.  It was no

one's affair how lonely the previous day had been, or

how the endless hours of the present would drag. 

"What is she doing in such a rush?"

Now was his chance.

"She's making a dress for Elnora," answered, Wesley. 

He saw Mrs. Comstock's form straighten, and her face

harden, so he continued hastily.  "You see Elnora has

been helping us at harvest time, butchering, and with

unexpected visitors for years.  We've made out that

she's saved us a considerable sum, and as she wouldn't

ever touch any pay for anything, we just went to town

and got a few clothes we thought would fix her up a little

for the high school.  We want to get a dress done to-day

mighty bad, but Margaret is slow about sewing, and she

never can finish alone, so I came after you."

"And it's such a simple little matter, so dead easy;

and all so between old friends like, that you can't look

above your boots while you explain it," sneered Mrs. Comstock. 

"Wesley Sinton, what put the idea into your head that

Elnora would take things bought with money, when she

wouldn't take the money?

Then Sinton's eyes came up straightly.

"Finding her on the trail last night sobbing as hard as

I ever saw any one at a funeral.  She wasn't complaining

at all, but she's come to me all her life with her little hurts,

and she couldn't hide how she'd been laughed at, twitted,

and run face to face against the fact that there were books

and tuition, unexpected, and nothing will ever make me

believe you didn't know that, Kate Comstock."

"If any doubts are troubling you on that subject, sure

I knew it!  She was so anxious to try the world, I thought

I'd just let her take a few knocks and see how she liked them."

"As if she'd ever taken anything but knocks all her life!"

cried Wesley Sinton.  "Kate Comstock, you are a heartless,

selfish woman.  You've never shown Elnora any real love in

her life.  If ever she finds out that thing you'll lose her,

and it will serve you right."

"She knows it now," said Mrs. Comstock icily, "and

she'll be home to-night just as usual."

"Well, you are a brave woman if you dared put a girl of

Elnora's make through what she suffered yesterday, and will

suffer again to-day, and let her know you did it on purpose. 

I admire your nerve.  But I've watched this since Elnora

was born, and I got enough.  Things have come to a pass

where they go better for her, or I interfere."

"As if you'd ever done anything but interfere all her life! 

Think I haven't watched you?  Think I, with my heart raw

in my breast, and too numb to resent it openly,

haven't seen you and Mag Sinton trying to turn Elnora

against me day after day?  When did you ever tell her

what her father meant to me?  When did you ever try to

make her see the wreck of my life, and what I've suffered? 

No indeed!  Always it's been poor little abused Elnora,

and cakes, kissing, extra clothes, and encouraging her

to run to you with a pitiful mouth every time I tried to

make a woman of her."

"Kate Comstock, that's unjust," cried Sinton.  "Only last

night I tried to show her the picture I saw the day she

was born.  I begged her to come to you and tell you

pleasant what she needed, and ask you for what I happen

to know you can well afford to give her."

"I can't!" cried Mrs. Comstock.  "You know I can't!"

"Then get so you can!" said Wesley Sinton.  "Any day

you say the word you can sell six thousand worth of

rare timber off this place easy.  I'll see to clearing and

working the fields cheap as dirt, for Elnora's sake. 

I'll buy you more cattle to fatten.  All you've got to do

is sign a lease, to pull thousands from the ground in oil,

as the rest of us are doing all around you!"

"Cut down Robert's trees!" shrieked Mrs. Comstock. 

"Tear up his land!  Cover everything with horrid,

greasy oil!  I'll die first."

"You mean you'll let Elnora go like a beggar, and hurt

and mortify her past bearing.  I've got to the place where

I tell you plain what I am going to do.  Maggie and I

went to town last night, and we bought what things Elnora

needs most urgent to make her look a little like the rest of

the high school girls.  Now here it is in plain English. 

You can help get these things ready, and let us give them to

her as we want----"

"She won't touch them!" cried Mrs. Comstock.

"Then you can pay us, and she can take them as her right----"

"I won't!"

"Then I will tell Elnora just what you are worth, what

you can afford, and how much of this she owns.  I'll loan

her the money to buy books and decent clothes, and

when she is of age she can sell her share and pay me."

Mrs. Comstock gripped a chair-back and opened her

lips, but no words came.

"And," Sinton continued, "if she is so much like you

that she won't do that, I'll go to the county seat and lay

complaint against you as her guardian before the judge. 

I'll swear to what you are worth, and how you are raising

her, and have you discharged, or have the judge appoint

some man who will see that she is comfortable, educated,

and decent looking!"

"You--you wouldn't!" gasped Kate Comstock.

"I won't need to, Kate!" said Sinton, his heart softening

the instant the hard words were said.  "You won't

show it, but you do love Elnora!  You can't help it! 

You must see how she needs things; come help us fix them,

and be friends.  Maggie and I couldn't live without her,

and you couldn't either.  You've got to love such a fine

girl as she is; let it show a little!"

"You can hardly expect me to love her," said Mrs.

Comstock coldly.  "But for her a man would stand back

of me now, who would beat the breath out of your sneaking

body for the cowardly thing with which you threaten me. 

After all I've suffered you'd drag me to court and

compel me to tear up Robert's property.  If I ever go they

carry me.  If they touch one tree, or put down one greasy

old oil well, it will be over all I can shoot, before they

begin.  Now, see how quick you can clear out of here!"

"You won't come and help Maggie with the dress?"

For answer Mrs. Comstock looked around swiftly for

some object on which to lay her hands.  Knowing her

temper, Wesley Sinton left with all the haste consistent

with dignity.  But he did not go home.  He crossed a

field, and in an hour brought another neighbour who was

skilful with her needle.  With sinking heart Margaret saw

them coming.

"Kate is too busy to help to-day, she can't sew before

to-morrow," said Wesley cheerfully as they entered.

That quieted Margaret's apprehension a little, though

she had some doubts.  Wesley prepared the lunch, and

by four o'clock the dress was finished as far as it possibly

could be until it was fitted on Elnora.  If that did not

entail too much work, it could be completed in two hours.

Then Margaret packed their purchases into the big

market basket.  Wesley took the hat, umbrella, and raincoat,

and they went to Mrs. Comstock's.  As they reached

the step, Margaret spoke pleasantly to Mrs. Comstock,

who sat reading just inside the door, but she did not

answer and deliberately turned a leaf without looking up.

Wesley Sinton opened the door and went in followed by Margaret.

"Kate," he said, "you needn't take out your mad over

our little racket on Maggie.  I ain't told her a word I said

to you, or you said to me.  She's not so very strong, and

she's sewed since four o'clock this morning to get this dress

ready for to-morrow.  It's done and we came down to try

it on Elnora."

"Is that the truth, Mag Sinton?" demanded Mrs. Comstock.

"You heard Wesley say so," proudly affirmed Mrs. Sinton.

"I want to make you a proposition," said Wesley. 

"Wait till Elnora comes.  Then we'll show her the things

and see what she says."

"How would it do to see what she says without bribing

her," sneered Mrs. Comstock.

"If she can stand what she did yesterday, and will to-

day, she can bear 'most anything," said Wesley.  "Put away

the clothes if you want to, till we tell her."

"Well, you don't take this waist I'm working on,"

said Margaret, "for I have to baste in the sleeves and set

the collar.  Put the rest out of sight if you like."

Mrs. Comstock picked up the basket and bundles,

placed them inside her room and closed the door.

Margaret threaded her needle and began to sew. 

Mrs. Comstock returned to her book, while Wesley fidgeted

and raged inwardly.  He could see that Margaret was

nervous and almost in tears, but the lines in Mrs.

Comstock's impassive face were set and cold.  So they

sat while the clock ticked off the time--one hour, two,

dusk, and no Elnora.  Just when Margaret and Wesley were

discussing whether he had not better go to town to meet

Elnora, they heard her coming up the walk.  Wesley dropped

his tilted chair and squared himself.  Margaret gripped

her sewing, and turned pleading eyes toward the door. 

Mrs. Comstock closed her book and grimly smiled.

"Mother, please open the door," called Elnora.

Mrs. Comstock arose, and swung back the screen.

Elnora stepped in beside her, bent half double, the whole

front of her dress gathered into a sort of bag filled with a

heavy load, and one arm stacked high with books.  In the

dim light she did not see the Sintons.

 "Please hand me the empty bucket in the kitchen,

mother," she said.  "I just had to bring these arrow

points home, but I'm scared for fear I've spoiled my dress

and will have to wash it.  I'm to clean them, and take

them to the banker in the morning, and oh, mother, I've

sold enough stuff to pay for my books, my tuition, and

maybe a dress and some lighter shoes besides.  Oh, mother

I'm so happy!  Take the books and bring the bucket!"

Then she saw Margaret and Wesley.  "Oh, glory!"

she exulted.  "I was just wondering how I'd ever wait to

tell you, and here you are!  It's too perfectly splendid to

be true!"

"Tell us, Elnora," said Sinton.

"Well sir," said Elnora, doubling down on the floor and

spreading out her skirt, "set the bucket here, mother. 

These points are brittle, and should be put in one at a time. 

If they are chipped I can't sell them.  Well sir!  I've had

a time!  You know I just had to have books.  I tried three

stores, and they wouldn't trust me, not even three days,

I didn't know what in this world I could do quickly enough. 

Just when I was almost frantic I saw a sign in a bank window

asking for caterpillars, cocoons, butterflies, arrow points,

and everything.  I went in, and it was this Bird Woman who

wants the insects, and the banker wants the stones.  I had

to go to school then, but, if you'll believe it"--Elnora

beamed on all of them in turn as she talked and slipped

the arrow points from her dress to the pail--"if you'll

believe it--but you won't, hardly, until you look at the

books--there was the mathematics teacher, waiting at his

door, and he had a set of books for me that he had

telephoned a Sophomore to bring."

"How did he happen to do that, Elnora?" interrupted Sinton.

Elnora blushed.

"It was a fool mistake I made yesterday in thinking

books were just handed out to one.  There was a teachers'

meeting last night and the history teacher told about that. 

Professor Henley thought of me.  You know I told you what

he said about my algebra, mother.  Ain't I glad I studied

out some of it myself this summer!  So he telephoned and

a girl brought the books.  Because they are marked and

abused some I get the whole outfit for two dollars. 

I can erase most of the marks, paste down the covers,

and fix them so they look better.  But I must hurry to

the joy part.  I didn't stop to eat, at noon, I just

ran to the Bird Woman's, and I had lunch with her.  It was

salad, hot chocolate, and lovely things, and she wants

to buy most every old scrap I ever gathered.  She wants

dragonflies, moths, butterflies, and he--the banker, I

mean--wants everything Indian.  This very night she

came to the swamp with me and took away enough stuff to

pay for the books and tuition, and to-morrow she is going

to buy some more."

Elnora laid the last arrow point in the pail and arose,

shaking leaves and bits of baked earth from her dress. 

She reached into her pocket, produced her money and

waved it before their wondering eyes.

"And that's the joy part!" she exulted.  "Put it up in

the clock till morning, mother.  That pays for the books

and tuition and--" Elnora hesitated, for she saw the

nervous grasp with which her mother's fingers closed on

the bills.  Then she continued, but more slowly and

thinking before she spoke.

"What I get to-morrow pays for more books and tuition,

and maybe a few, just a few, things to wear.  These shoes

are so dreadfully heavy and hot, and they make such a

noise on the floor.  There isn't another calico dress in

the whole building, not among hundreds of us.  Why, what

is that?  Aunt Margaret, what are you hiding in your lap?"

She snatched the waist and shook it out, and her face

was beaming.  "Have you taken to waists all fancy and

buttoned in the back?  I bet you this is mine!"

"I bet you so too," said Margaret Sinton.  "You undress

right away and try it on, and if it fits, it will be

done for morning.  There are some low shoes, too!"

Elnora began to dance.  "Oh, you dear people!"

she cried.  "I can pay for them to-morrow night! 

Isn't it too splendid!  I was just thinking on the

way home that I certainly would be compelled to

have cooler shoes until later, and I was wondering

what I'd do when the fall rains begin."

"I meant to get you some heavy dress skirts and a

coat then," said Mrs. Comstock.

"I know you said so!" cried Elnora.  "But you needn't, now! 

I can buy every single stitch I need myself.  Next summer

I can gather up a lot more stuff, and all winter on the

way to school.  I am sure I can sell ferns, I know

I can nuts, and the Bird Woman says the grade rooms

want leaves, grasses, birds' nests, and cocoons.  Oh, isn't

this world lovely!  I'll be helping with the tax, next, mother!"

Elnora waved the waist and started for the bedroom. 

When she opened the door she gave a little cry.

"What have you people been doing?" she demanded. 

"I never saw so many interesting bundles in all my life. 

I'm `skeered' to death for fear I can't pay for them, and

will have to give up something."

"Wouldn't you take them, if you could not pay for

them, Elnora?" asked her mother instantly.

"Why, not unless you did," answered Elnora.  "People have

no right to wear things they can't afford, have they?"

"But from such old friends as Maggie and Wesley!" 

Mrs. Comstock's voice was oily with triumph.

"From them least of all," cried Elnora stoutly.  "From a

stranger sooner than from them, to whom I owe so much more

than I ever can pay now."

"Well, you don't have to," said Mrs. Comstock. 

"Maggie just selected these things, because she is more

in touch with the world, and has got such good taste. 

You can pay as long as your money holds out, and if

there's more necessary, maybe I can sell the butcher a

calf, or if things are too costly for us, of course,

they can take them back.  Put on the waist now, and then

you can look over the rest and see if they are suitable,

and what you want."

Elnora stepped into the adjoining room and closed the door. 

Mrs. Comstock picked up the bucket and started for the well

with it.  At the bedroom she paused.

"Elnora, were you going to wash these arrow points?"

"Yes.  The Bird Woman says they sell better if they are clean,

so it can be seen that there are no defects in them."

"Of course," said Mrs. Comstock.  "Some of them

seem quite baked.  Shall I put them to soak?  Do you

want to take them in the morning?"

"Yes, I do," answered Elnora.  "If you would just

fill the pail with water."

Mrs. Comstock left the room.  Wesley Sinton sat

with his back to the window in the west end of the cabin

which overlooked the well.  A suppressed sound behind

him caused him to turn quickly.  Then he arose and

leaned over Margaret.

"She's out there laughing like a blamed monkey!"

he whispered indignantly.

"Well, she can't help it!" exclaimed Margaret.

"I'm going home!" said Wesley.

"Oh no, you are not!" retorted Margaret.  "You are

missing the point.  The point is not how you look,

or feel.  It is to get these things in Elnora's possession

past dispute.  You go now, and to-morrow Elnora will

wear calico, and Kate Comstock will return these goods. 

Right here I stay until everything we bought is Elnora's."

"What are you going to do?" asked Wesley.

"I don't know yet, myself," said Margaret.

Then she arose and peered from the window.  At the

well curb stood Katharine Comstock.  The strain

of the day was finding reaction.  Her chin was in the

air, she was heaving, shaking and strangling to suppress

any sound.  The word that slipped between Margaret

Sinton's lips shocked Wesley until he dropped on his

chair, and recalled her to her senses.  She was fairly

composed as she turned to Elnora, and began the fitting. 

When she had pinched, pulled, and patted she called,

"Come see if you think this fits, Kate."

Mrs. Comstock had gone around to the back door and

answered from the kitchen.  "You know more about

it than I do.  Go ahead!  I'm getting supper. 

Don't forget to allow for what it will shrink in washing!"

"I set the colours and washed the goods last night;

it can be made to fit right now," answered Margaret.

When she could find nothing more to alter she told

Elnora to heat some water.  After she had done that the

girl began opening packages.

The hat came first.

"Mother!" cried Elnora.  "Mother, of course, you

have seen this, but you haven't seen it on me.  I must

try it on."

"Don't you dare put that on your head until your hair

is washed and properly combed," said Margaret.

"Oh!" cried Elnora.  "Is that water to wash my hair? 

I thought it was to set the colour in another dress."

"Well, you thought wrong," said Margaret simply. 

"Your hair is going to be washed and brushed until

it shines like copper.  While it dries you can eat your

supper, and this dress will be finished.  Then you can

put on your new ribbon, and your hat.  You can try

your shoes now, and if they don't fit, you and Wesley

can drive to town and change them.  That little round

bundle on the top of the basket is your stockings."

Margaret sat down and began sewing swiftly, and a little

later opened the machine, and ran several long seams.

Elnora returned in a few minutes holding up her skirts

and stepping daintily in the new shoes.

"Don't soil them, honey, else you're sure they fit,"

cautioned Wesley.

"They seem just a trifle large, maybe," said Elnora

dubiously, and Wesley knelt to feel.  He and Margaret

thought them a fit, and then Elnora appealed to

her mother.  Mrs. Comstock appeared wiping her hands

on her apron.  She examined the shoes critically.

"They seem to fit," she said, "but they are away too

fine to walk country roads."

"I think so, too," said Elnora instantly.  "We had

better take these back and get a cheaper pair."

"Oh, let them go for this time," said Mrs. Comstock. 

"They are so pretty, I hate to part with them.  You can

get cheaper ones after this."

Wesley and Margaret scarcely breathed for a long time.

When Wesley went to do the feeding.  Elnora set

the table.  When the water was hot, Margaret pinned a

big towel around Elnora's shoulders and washed and

dried the lovely hair according to the instructions she

had been given the previous night.  As the hair began

to dry it billowed out in a sparkling sheen that caught the

light and gleamed and flashed.

"Now, the idea is to let it stand naturally, just as the

curl will make it.  Don't you do any of that nasty, untidy

snarling, Elnora," cautioned Margaret.  "Wash it this

way every two weeks while you are in school, shake it

out, and dry it.  Then part it in the middle and turn a

front quarter on each side from your face.  You tie the

back at your neck with a string--so, and the ribbon goes

in a big, loose bow.  I'll show you."  One after another

Margaret Sinton tied the ribbons, creasing each of them

so they could not be returned, as she explained that she

was trying to find the colour most becoming.  Then she

produced the raincoat which carried Elnora into transports.

Mrs. Comstock objected.  "That won't be warm enough for

cold weather, and you can't afford it and a coat, too."

"I'll tell you what I thought," said Elnora.  "I was

planning on the way home.  These coats are fine because

they keep you dry.  I thought I would get one, and a

warm sweater to wear under it cold days.  Then I always

would be dry, and warm.  The sweater only costs three

dollars, so I could get it and the raincoat both for half

the price of a heavy cloth coat."

"You are right about that," said Mrs. Comstock. 

"You can change more with the weather, too.  Keep the

raincoat, Elnora."

"Wear it until you try the hat," said Margaret.  "It will

have to do until the dress is finished."

Elnora picked up the hat dubiously.  "Mother, may

I wear my hair as it is now?" she asked.

"Let me take a good look," said Katharine Comstock.

Heaven only knows what she saw.  To Wesley and

to Margaret the bright young face of Elnora, with its

pink tints, its heavy dark brows, its bright blue-gray

eyes, and its frame of curling reddish-brown hair was

the sweetest sight on earth, and at that instant Elnora

was radiant.

"So long as it's your own hair, and combed back as plain

as it will go, I don't suppose it cuts much ice whether

it's tied a little tighter or looser," conceded Mrs. Comstock. 

"If you stop right there, you may let it go at that."

Elnora set the hat on her head.  It was only a wide

tan straw with three exquisite peacock quills at one side. 

Margaret Sinton cried out, Wesley slapped his knee and

sighed deeply while Mrs. Comstock stood speechless

for a second.

"I wish you had asked the price before you put that

on," she said impatiently.  "We never can afford it."

"It's not so much as you think," said Margaret. 

"Don't you see what I did?  I had them take off the

quills, and put on some of those Phoebe Simms gave me

from her peacocks.  The hat will only cost you a dollar

and a half."

She avoided Wesley's eyes, and looked straight at

Mrs. Comstock.  Elnora removed the hat to examine it.

"Why, they are those reddish-tan quills of yours!"

she cried.  "Mother, look how beautifully they are

set on!  I'd much rather have them than those from

the store."

"So would I," said Mrs. Comstock.  "If Margaret

wants to spare them, that will make you a beautiful

hat; dirt cheap, too!  You must go past Mrs. Simms

and show her.  She would be pleased to see them."

Elnora sank into a chair and contemplated her toe.

"Landy, ain't I a queen?" she murmured.  "What else

have I got?"

"Just a belt, some handkerchiefs, and a pair of top

shoes for rainy days and colder weather," said Margaret.

"About those high shoes, that was my idea," said Wesley. 

"Soon as it rains, low shoes won't do, and by taking

two pairs at once I could get them some cheaper.  The low

ones are two and the high ones two fifty, together three

seventy-five.  Ain't that cheap?"

"That's a real bargain," said Mrs. Comstock, "if they

are good shoes, and they look it."

"This" said Wesley, producing the last package, "is

your Christmas present from your Aunt Maggie.  I got

mine, too, but it's at the house.  I'll bring it up in

the morning."

He handed Margaret the umbrella, and she passed it

over to Elnora who opened it and sat laughing under

its shelter.  Then she kissed both of them.  She brought a

pencil and a slip of paper to set down the prices they gave

her of everything they had brought except the umbrella,

added the sum, and said laughingly:  "Will you please wait

till to-morrow for the money?  I will have it then, sure."

"Elnora," said Wesley Sinton.  "Wouldn't you----"

"Elnora, hustle here a minute!" called Mrs. Comstock

from the kitchen.  "I need you!"

"One second, mother," answered Elnora, throwing off

the coat and hat, and closing the umbrella as she ran. 

There were several errands to do in a hurry, and then supper. 

Elnora chattered incessantly, Wesley and Margaret talked

all they could, while Mrs. Comstock said a word now and then,

which was all she ever did.  But Wesley Sinton was watching

her, and time and again he saw a peculiar little twist

around her mouth.  He knew that for the first time in

sixteen years she really was laughing over something. 

She had all she could do to preserve her usually sober face. 

Wesley knew what she was thinking.

After supper the dress was finished, the pattern for

the next one discussed, and then the Sintons went home. 

Elnora gathered her treasures.  When she started upstairs

she stopped.  "May I kiss you good-night, mother?"

she asked lightly.

"Never mind any slobbering," said Mrs. Comstock. 

"I should think you'd lived with me long enough to know

that I don't care for it."

"Well, I'd love to show you in some way how happy I

am, and how I thank you."

"I wonder what for?" said Mrs. Comstock.  "Mag Sinton

chose that stuff and brought it here and you pay for it."

"Yes, but you seemed willing for me to have it, and

you said you would help me if I couldn't pay all."

"Maybe I did," said Mrs. Comstock.  "Maybe I did. 

I meant to get you some heavy dress skirts about

Thanksgiving, and I still can get them.  Go to bed,

and for any sake don't begin mooning before a mirror,

and make a dunce of yourself."

Mrs. Comstock picked up several papers and blew out

the kitchen light.  She stood in the middle of the sitting-

room floor for a time and then went into her room and

closed the door.  Sitting on the edge of the bed she thought

for a few minutes and then suddenly buried her face in the

pillow and again heaved with laughter.

Down the road plodded Margaret and Wesley Sinton. 

Neither of them had words to utter their united thought.

"Done!" hissed Wesley at last.  "Done brown!  Did you

ever feel like a bloomin', confounded donkey?  How did

the woman do it?"

"She didn't do it!" gulped Margaret through her tears. 

"She didn't do anything.  She trusted to Elnora's great

big soul to bring her out right, and really she was right,

and so it had to bring her.  She's a darling, Wesley! 

But she's got a time before her.  Did you see Kate Comstock

grab that money?  Before six months she'll be out combing

the Limberlost for bugs and arrow points to help pay the tax. 

I know her."

"Well, I don't!" exclaimed Sinton, "she's too many for me. 

But there is a laugh left in her yet!  I didn't s'pose

there was.  Bet you a dollar, if we could see her this

minute, she'd be chuckling over the way we got left."

Both of them stopped in the road and looked back.

"There's Elnora's light in her room," said Margaret. 

"The poor child will feel those clothes, and pore over

her books till morning, but she'll look decent to go to

school, anyway.  Nothing is too big a price to pay for that."

"Yes, if Kate lets her wear them.  Ten to one, she

makes her finish the week with that old stuff!"

"No, she won't," said Margaret.  "She'll hardly dare. 

Kate made some concessions, all right; big ones for her--

if she did get her way in the main.  She bent some, and

if Elnora proves that she can walk out barehanded in the

morning and come back with that much money in her

pocket, an armful of books, and buy a turnout like that,

she proves that she is of some consideration, and Kate's

smart enough.  She'll think twice before she'll do that. 

Elnora won't wear a calico dress to high school again. 

You watch and see if she does.  She may have the best

clothes she'll get for a time, for the least money, but she

won't know it until she tries to buy goods herself at the

same rates.  Wesley, what about those prices?  Didn't they

shrink considerable?"

"You began it," said Wesley.  "Those prices were all right. 

We didn't say what the goods cost us, we said what they

would cost her.  Surely, she's mistaken about being able

to pay all that.  Can she pick up stuff of that value

around the Limberlost?  Didn't the Bird Woman see her

trouble, and just give her the money?"

"I don't think so," said Margaret.  "Seems to me

I've heard of her paying, or offering to pay those who

would take the money, for bugs and butterflies, and I've

known people who sold that banker Indian stuff.  Once I

heard that his pipe collection beat that of the Government

at the Philadelphia Centennial.  Those things have come

to have a value."

"Well, there's about a bushel of that kind of valuables

piled up in the woodshed, that belongs to Elnora.  At least,

I picked them up because she said she wanted them. 

Ain't it queer that she'd take to stones, bugs, and

butterflies, and save them.  Now they are going to bring her

the very thing she wants the worst.  Lord, but this is a funny

world when you get to studying!  Looks like things didn't

all come by accident.  Looks as if there was a plan back

of it, and somebody driving that knows the road, and how

to handle the lines.  Anyhow, Elnora's in the wagon, and

when I get out in the night and the dark closes around me,

and I see the stars, I don't feel so cheap.  Maggie, how the

nation did Kate Comstock do that?"

"You will keep on harping, Wesley.  I told you she

didn't do it.  Elnora did it!  She walked in and took

things right out of our hands.  All Kate had to do was to

enjoy having it go her way, and she was cute enough to

put in a few questions that sort of guided Elnora.  But I

don't know, Wesley.  This thing makes me think, too. 

S'pose we'd taken Elnora when she was a baby, and we'd

heaped on her all the love we can't on our own, and we'd

coddled, petted, and shielded her, would she have made

the woman that living alone, learning to think for herself,

and taking all the knocks Kate Comstock could give, have

made of her?"

"You bet your life!" cried Wesley, warmly.  "Loving anybody

don't hurt them.  We wouldn't have done anything but love her. 

You can't hurt a child loving it.  She'd have learned to work,

to study, and grown into a woman with us, without suffering

like a poor homeless dog."

"But you don't see the point, Wesley.  She would have

grown into a fine woman with us; but as we would have

raised her, would her heart ever have known the world as it

does now?  Where's the anguish, Wesley, that child can't

comprehend?  Seeing what she's seen of her mother hasn't

hardened her.  She can understand any mother's sorrow. 

Living life from the rough side has only broadened her. 

Where's the girl or boy burning with shame, or struggling

to find a way, that will cross Elnora's path and not get

a lift from her?  She's had the knocks, but there'll never

be any of the thing you call `false pride' in her.  I guess

we better keep out.  Maybe Kate Comstock knows what she's doing. 

Sure as you live, Elnora has grown bigger on knocks than she

would on love."

"I don't s'pose there ever was a very fine point to

anything but I missed it," said Wesley, "because I am

blunt, rough, and have no book learning to speak of. 

Since you put it into words I see what you mean, but it's

dinged hard on Elnora, just the same.  And I don't keep out. 

I keep watching closer than ever.  I got my slap in the

face, but if I don't miss my guess, Kate Comstock learned

her lesson, same as I did.  She learned that I was in

earnest, that I would haul her to court if she didn't

loosen up a bit, and she'll loosen.  You see if she doesn't. 

It may come hard, and the hinges creak, but she'll fix

Elnora decent after this, if Elnora doesn't prove that she

can fix herself.  As for me, I found out that what I was

doing was as much for myself as for Elnora.  I wanted her

to take those things from us, and love us for giving them. 

It didn't work, and but for you, I'd messed the whole

thing and stuck like a pig in crossing a bridge.  But you

helped me out; Elnora's got the clothes, and by morning,

maybe I won't grudge Kate the only laugh she's had in

sixteen years.  You been showing me the way quite a

spell now, ain't you, Maggie?"

In her attic Elnora lighted two candles, set them on her

little table, stacked the books, and put away the

precious clothes.  How lovingly she hung the hat and umbrella,

folded the raincoat, and spread the new dress over a chair. 

She fingered the ribbons, and tried to smooth the creases

from them.  She put away the hose neatly folded, touched

the handkerchiefs, and tried the belt.  Then she slipped

into her white nightdress, shook down her hair that it

might become thoroughly dry, set a chair before the table,

and reverently opened one of the books.  A stiff draught

swept the attic, for it stretched the length of the cabin,

and had a window in each end.  Elnora arose and going to the

east window closed it.  She stood for a minute looking at

the stars, the sky, and the dark outline of the straggling

trees of the rapidly dismantling Limberlost.  In the region

of her case a tiny point of light flashed and disappeared. 

Elnora straightened and wondered.  Was it wise to leave

her precious money there?  The light flashed once more,

wavered a few seconds, and died out.  The girl waited. 

She did not see it again, so she turned to her books.

In the Limberlost the hulking figure of a man sneaked

down the trail.

"The Bird Woman was at Freckles's room this evening,"

he muttered.  "Wonder what for?"

He left the trail, entered the enclosure still distinctly

outlined, and approached the case.  The first point of light

flashed from the tiny electric lamp on his vest.  He took

a duplicate key from his pocket, felt for the padlock and

opened it.  The door swung wide.  The light flashed the

second time.  Swiftly his glance swept the interior.

"'Bout a fourth of her moths gone.  Elnora must

have been with the Bird Woman and given them to her."

Then he stood tense.  His keen eyes discovered the

roll of bills hastily thrust back in the bottom of the case. 

He snatched them up, shut off the light, relocked the

case by touch, and swiftly went down the trail.  Every few

seconds he paused and listened intently.  Just as he

reached the road, a second figure approached him.

"Is it you, Pete?" came the whispered question.

"Yes," said the first man.

"I was coming down to take a peep, when I saw your

flash," he said.  "I heard the Bird Woman had been at

the case to-day.  Anything doing?"

"Not a thing," said Pete.  "She just took away about

a fourth of the moths.  Probably had the Comstock girl

getting them for her.  Heard they were together. 

Likely she'll get the rest to-morrow.  Ain't picking

gettin' bare these days?"

"Well, I should say so," said the second man, turning

back in disgust.  "Coming home, now?"

"No, I am going down this way," answered Pete,

for his eyes caught the gleam from the window of the

Comstock cabin, and he had a desire to learn why Elnora's

attic was lighted at that hour.

He slouched down the road, occasionally feeling the

size of the roll he had not taken time to count.

The attic was too long, the light too near the other

end, and the cabin stood much too far back from the road. 

He could see nothing although he climbed the fence

and walked back opposite the window.  He knew

Mrs. Comstock was probably awake, and that she

sometimes went to the swamp behind her home at night. 

At times a cry went up from that locality that paralyzed

any one near, or sent them fleeing as if for life.  He did

not care to cross behind the cabin.  He returned to the

road, passed, and again climbed the fence.  Opposite the

west window he could see Elnora.  She sat before

a small table reading from a book between two candles. 

Her hair fell in a bright sheen around her, and with one

hand she lightly shook, and tossed it as she studied. 

The man stood out in the night and watched.

For a long time a leaf turned at intervals and the

hair-drying went on.  The man drew nearer.  The picture

grew more beautiful as he approached.  He could not

see so well as he desired, for the screen was of white

mosquito netting, and it angered him.  He cautiously

crept closer.  The elevation shut off his view.  Then he

remembered the large willow tree shading the well and

branching across the window fit the west end of the cabin. 

From childhood Elnora had stepped from the sill to a limb

and slid down the slanting trunk of the tree.  He reached

it and noiselessly swung himself up.  Three steps out

on the big limb the man shuddered.  He was within a

few feet of the girl.

He could see the throb of her breast under its thin

covering and smell the fragrance of the tossing hair. 

He could see the narrow bed with its pieced calico cover,

the whitewashed walls with gay lithographs, and every

crevice stuck full of twigs with dangling cocoons. 

There were pegs for the few clothes, the old chest,

the little table, the two chairs, the uneven floor covered

with rag rugs and braided corn husk.  But nothing was worth

a glance except the perfect face and form within reach by

one spring through the rotten mosquito bar.  He gripped

the limb above that on which he stood, licked his lips,

and breathed through his throat to be sure he was making

no sound.  Elnora closed the book and laid it aside. 

She picked up a towel, and turning the gathered ends of

her hair rubbed them across it, and dropping the towel on

her lap, tossed the hair again.  Then she sat in deep thought. 

By and by words began to come softly.  Near as he was

the man could not hear at first.  He bent closer and

listened intently.

"--ever could be so happy," murmured the soft voice. 

"The dress is so pretty, such shoes, the coat, and everything. 

I won't have to be ashamed again, not ever again,

for the Limberlost is full of precious moths, and

I always can collect them.  The Bird Woman will buy

more to-morrow, and the next day, and the next.  When they

are all gone, I can spend every minute gathering

cocoons, and hunting other things I can sell.  Oh, thank

God, for my precious, precious money.  Why, I didn't

pray in vain after all!  I thought when I asked the Lord

to hide me, there in that big hall, that He wasn't doing

it, because I wasn't covered from sight that instant. 

But I'm hidden now, I feel that."  Elnora lifted her eyes

to the beams above her.  "I don't know much about praying

properly," she muttered, "but I do thank you, Lord, for

hiding me in your own time and way."

Her face was so bright that it shone with a white radiance. 

Two big tears welled from her eyes, and rolled down her

smiling cheeks.  "Oh, I do feel that you have hidden me,"

she breathed.  Then she blew out the lights, and the little

wooden bed creaked under her weight.

Pete Corson dropped from the limb and found his way

to the road.  He stood still a long time, then started back

to the Limberlost.  A tiny point of light flashed in the

region of the case.  He stopped with an oath.

"Another hound trying to steal from a girl," he exclaimed. 

"But it's likely he thinks if he gets anything it will be

from a woman who can afford it, as I did."

He went on, but beside the fences, and very cautiously. 

"Swamp seems to be alive to-night," he muttered. 

"That's three of us out."

He entered a deep place at the northwest corner, sat

on the ground and taking a pencil from his pocket, he

tore a leaf from a little notebook, and laboriously wrote

a few lines by the light he carried.  Then he went back

to the region of the case and waited.  Before his eyes

swept the vision of the slender white creature with

tossing hair.  He smiled, and worshipped it, until a

distant rooster faintly announced dawn.

Then he unlocked the case again, and replaced the

money, laid the note upon it, and went back to

concealment, where he remained until Elnora came down the

trail in the morning, appearing very lovely in her new

dress and hat.

CHAPTER V

WHEREIN ELNORA RECEIVES A WARNING,

AND BILLY APPEARS ON THE SCENE

It would be difficult to describe how happy Elnora

was that morning as she hurried through her work,

bathed and put on the neat, dainty gingham dress,

and the tan shoes.  She had a struggle with her hair. 

It crinkled, billowed, and shone, and she could

not avoid seeing the becoming frame it made around

her face.  But in deference to her mother's feelings the

girl set her teeth, and bound her hair closely to her head

with a shoe-string.  "Not to be changed at the case,"

she told herself.

That her mother was watching she was unaware.  Just as

she picked up the beautiful brown ribbon Mrs. Comstock spoke.

"You had better let me tie that.  You can't reach

behind yourself and do it right."

Elnora gave a little gasp.  Her mother never before

had proposed to do anything for the girl that by any

possibility she could do herself.  Her heart quaked at

the thought of how her mother would arrange that bow,

but Elnora dared not refuse.  The offer was too precious. 

It might never be made again.

"Oh thank you!" said the girl, and sitting down she

held out the ribbon.

Her mother stood back and looked at her critically.

"You haven't got that like Mag Sinton had it last

night," she announced.  "You little idiot!  You've tried

to plaster it down to suit me, and you missed it.  I liked

it away better as Mag fixed it, after I saw it.  You didn't

look so peeled."

"Oh mother, mother!" laughed Elnora, with a half

sob in her voice.

"Hold still, will you?" cried Mrs. Comstock.  "You'll be

late, and I haven't packed your dinner yet."

She untied the string and shook out the hair.  It rose

with electricity and clung to her fingers and hands.  Mrs.

Comstock jumped back as if bitten.  She knew that touch. 

Her face grew white, and her eyes angry.

"Tie it yourself," she said shortly, "and then I'll put

on the ribbon.  But roll it back loose like Mag did. 

It looked so pretty that way."

Almost fainting Elnora stood before the glass, divided

off the front parts of her hair, and rolled them as Mrs.

Sinton had done; tied it at the nape of her neck, then sat

while her mother arranged the ribbon.

"If I pull it down till it comes tight in these creases

where she had it, it will be just right, won't it?" queried

Mrs. Comstock, and the amazed Elnora stammered

"Yes."

When she looked in the glass the bow was perfectly

tied, and how the gold tone of the brown did match the

lustre of the shining hair!  "That's pretty," commented

Mrs. Comstock's soul, but her stiff lips had said all that

could be forced from them for once.  Just then Wesley

Sinton came to the door.

"Good morning," he cried heartily.  "Elnora, you

look a picture!  My, but you're sweet!  If any of the

city boys get sassy you tell your Uncle Wesley, and

he'll horsewhip them.  Here's your Christmas present

from me."  He handed Elnora the leather lunch box, with

her name carved across the strap in artistic lettering.

"Oh Uncle Wesley!" was all Elnora could say.

"Your Aunt Maggie filled it for me for a starter," he said. 

"Now, if you are ready, I'm going to drive past your way

and you can ride almost to Onabasha with me, and save

the new shoes that much."

Elnora was staring at the box.  "Oh I hope it isn't

impolite to open it before you," she said.  "I just feel

as if I must see inside."

"Don't you stand on formality with the neighbours,"

laughed Sinton.  "Look in your box if you want to!"

Elnora slipped the strap and turned back the lid.

This disclosed the knife, fork, napkin, and spoon, the

milk flask, and the interior packed with dainty sandwiches

wrapped in tissue paper, and the little compartments for

meat, salad, and the custard cup.

"Oh mother!" cried Elnora.  "Oh mother, isn't it fine? 

What made you think of it, Uncle Wesley?  How will I ever

thank you?  No one will have a finer lunch box than I. 

Oh I do thank you!  That's the nicest gift I ever had. 

How I love Christmas in September!"

"It's a mighty handy thing," assented Mrs. Comstock,

taking in every detail with sharp eyes.  "I guess you are

glad now you went and helped Mag and Wesley when you

could, Elnora?"

"Deedy, yes," laughed Elnora, "and I'm going again first

time they have a big day if I stay from school to do it."

"You'll do no such thing!" said the delighted Sinton. 

"Come now, if you're going!"

"If I ride, can you spare me time to run into the swamp

to my box a minute?" asked Elnora.

The light she had seen the previous night troubled her.

"Sure," said Wesley largely.  So they drove away and

left a white-faced woman watching them from the door,

her heart a little sorer than usual.

"I'd give a pretty to hear what he'll say to her!" she

commented bitterly.  "Always sticking in, always doing

things I can't ever afford.  Where on earth did he get that

thing and what did it cost?"

Then she entered the cabin and began the day's work,

but mingled with the brooding bitterness of her soul was

the vision of a sweet young face, glad with a gladness

never before seen on it, and over and over she repeated: 

"I wonder what he'll say to her!"

What he said was that she looked as fresh and sweet as a

posy, and to be careful not to step in the mud or scratch

her shoes when she went to the case.

Elnora found her key and opened the door.  Not where

she had placed it, but conspicuously in front lay her little

heap of bills, and a crude scrawl of writing beside it. 

Elnora picked up the note in astonishment.

DERE ELNORY,

the lord amighty is hiding you all right done you ever dout it this

money of yourn was took for some time las nite but it is returned with

intres for god sake done ever come to the swamp at nite or late evnin

or mornin or far in any time sompin worse an you know could git you

                                                  A FREND.

Elnora began to tremble.  She hastily glanced around. 

The damp earth before the case had been trodden by

large, roughly shod feet.  She caught up the money and

the note, thrust them into her guimpe, locked the case,

and ran to the road.

She was so breathless and her face so white Sinton noticed it.

"What in the world's the matter, Elnora?" he asked.

"I am half afraid!" she panted.

"Tut, tut, child!" said Wesley Sinton.  "Nothing in

the world to be afraid of.  What happened?"

"Uncle Wesley," said Elnora, "I had more money than I

brought home last night, and I put it in my case.  Some one

has been there.  The ground is all trampled, and they

left this note."

"And took your money, I'll wager," said Sinton angrily.

"No," answered Elnora.  "Read the note, and oh

Uncle Wesley, tell me what it means!"

Sinton's face was a study.  "I don't know what it

means,"  he said.  "Only one thing is clear.  It means

some beast who doesn't really want to harm you has got

his eye on you, and he is telling you plain as he can, not

to give him a chance.  You got to keep along the roads,

in the open, and not let the biggest moth that ever flew

toll you out of hearing of us, or your mother.  It means

that, plain and distinct."

"Just when I can sell them!  Just when everything is so

lovely on account of them!  I can't!  I can't stay away

from the swamp.  The Limberlost is going to buy the books,

the clothes, pay the tuition, and even start a college fund. 

I just can't!"

"You've got to," said Sinton.  "This is plain enough. 

You go far in the swamp at your own risk, even in daytime."

"Uncle Wesley," said the girl, "last night before I went

to bed, I was so happy I tried to pray, and I thanked God

for hiding me `under the shadow of His wing.'  But how

in the world could any one know it?"

Wesley Sinton's heart leaped in his breast.  His face

was whiter than the girl's now.

"Were you praying out loud, honey?" he almost whispered.

"I might have said words," answered Elnora.  "I know

I do sometimes.  I've never had any one to talk with,

and I've played with and talked to myself all my life. 

You've caught me at it often, but it always makes mother

angry when she does.  She says it's silly.  I forget

and do it, when I'm alone.  But Uncle Wesley, if I said

anything last night, you know it was the merest whisper,

because I'd have been so afraid of waking mother. 

Don't you see?  I sat up late, and studied two lessons."

Sinton was steadying himself "I'll stop and examine

the case as I come back," he said.  "Maybe I can find

some clue.  That other--that was just accidental.  It's a

common expression.  All the preachers use it.  If I tried

to pray, that would be the very first thing I'd say."

The colour returned to Elnora's face.

"Did you tell your mother about this money, Elnora?"

he asked.

"No, I didn't," said Elnora.  "It's dreadful not to, but

I was afraid.  You see they are clearing the swamp so fast. 

Every year it grows more difficult to find things, and

Indian stuff becomes scarcer.  I want to graduate, and

that's four years unless I can double on the course. 

That means twenty dollars tuition each year, and new books,

and clothes.  There won't ever be so much at one time

again, that I know.  I just got to hang to my money.  I was

afraid to tell her, for fear she would want it for taxes,

and she really must sell a tree or some cattle for that,

mustn't she, Uncle Wesley?"

"On your life, she must!" said Wesley.  "You put your

little wad in the bank all safe, and never mention it

to a living soul.  It doesn't seem right, but your case

is peculiar.  Every word you say is a true word.  Each year

you will find less in the swamp, and things everywhere will

be scarcer.  If you ever get a few dollars ahead, that can start

your college fund.  You know you are going to college, Elnora!"

"Of course I am," said Elnora.  "I settled that as soon

as I knew what a college was.  I will put all my money in

the bank, except what I owe you.  I'll pay that now."

"If your arrows are heavy," said Wesley, "I'll drive on

to Onabasha with you."

"But they are not.  Half of them were nicked, and this

little box held all the good ones.  It's so surprising how

many are spoiled when you wash them."

"What does he pay?"

"Ten cents for any common perfect one, fifty for revolvers,

a dollar for obsidian, and whatever is right for enormous

big ones."

"Well, that sounds fair," said Sinton.  "You can come

down Saturday and wash the stuff at our house, and I'll

take it in when we go marketing in the afternoon."

Elnora jumped from the carriage.  She soon found that

with her books, her lunch box, and the points she had a

heavy load.  She had almost reached the bridge crossing

the culvert when she heard distressed screams of a child. 

Across an orchard of the suburbs came a small boy, after

him a big dog, urged by a man in the background. 

Elnora's heart was with the small fleeing figure in any

event whatever.  She dropped her load on the bridge,

and with practised hand flung a stone at the dog. 

The beast curled double with a howl.  The boy reached

the fence, and Elnora was there to help him over.  As he

touched the top she swung him to the ground, but he clung

to her, clasping her tightly, sobbing with fear. 

Elnora helped him to the bridge, and sat with him in her arms. 

For a time his replies to her questions were indistinct, but

at last he became quieter and she could understand.

He was a mite of a boy, nothing but skin-covered bones,

his burned, freckled face in a mortar of tears and dust, his

clothing unspeakably dirty, one great toe in a festering

mass from a broken nail, and sores all over the visible

portions of the small body.

"You won't let the mean old thing make his dog get me!" he wailed.

"Indeed no," said Elnora, holding him closely.

"You wouldn't set a dog on a boy for just taking a few

old apples when you fed 'em to pigs with a shovel every

day, would you?"

"No, I would not," said Elnora hotly.

"You'd give a boy all the apples he wanted, if he hadn't

any breakfast, and was so hungry he was all twisty inside,

wouldn't you?"

"Yes, I would," said Elnora.

"If you had anything to eat you would give me something

right now, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," said Elnora.  "There's nothing but just stones in

the package.  But my dinner is in that case.  I'll gladly divide."

She opened the box.  The famished child gave a little

cry and reached both hands.  Elnora caught them back.

"Did you have any supper?"

"No."

"Any dinner yesterday?"

"An apple and some grapes I stole."

"Whose boy are you?"

"Old Tom Billings's."

"Why doesn't your father get you something to eat?"

"He does most days, but he's drunk now."

"Hush, you must not!" said Elnora.  "He's your father!"

"He's spent all the money to get drunk, too," said the

boy, "and Jimmy and Belle are both crying for breakfast. 

I'd a got out all right with an apple for myself, but I tried

to get some for them and the dog got too close.  Say, you

can throw, can't you?"

"Yes," admitted Elnora.  She poured half the milk

into the cup.  "Drink this," she said, holding it to him.

The boy gulped the milk and swore joyously, gripping

the cup with shaking fingers.

"Hush!" cried Elnora.  "That's dreadful!"

"What's dreadful?"

"To say such awful words."

"Huh! pa says worser 'an that every breath he draws."

Elnora saw that the child was older than she had thought. 

He might have been forty judging by his hard, unchildish expression.

"Do you want to be like your father?"

"No, I want to be like you.  Couldn't a angel be

prettier 'an you.  Can I have more milk?"

Elnora emptied the flask.  The boy drained the cup. 

He drew a breath of satisfaction as he gazed into her face.

"You wouldn't go off and leave your little boy, would

you?" he asked.

"Did some one go away and leave you?"

"Yes, my mother went off and left me, and left Jimmy

and Belle, too," said the boy.  "You wouldn't leave

your little boy, would you?"

"No."

The boy looked eagerly at the box.  Elnora lifted a

sandwich and uncovered the fried chicken.  The boy

gasped with delight.

"Say, I could eat the stuff in the glass and the other

box and carry the bread and the chicken to Jimmy and

Belle," he offered.

Elnora silently uncovered the custard with preserved

cherries on top and handed it and the spoon to the child. 

Never did food disappear faster.  The salad went next,

and a sandwich and half a chicken breast followed.

"I better leave the rest for Jimmy and Belle," he

said, "they're 'ist fightin' hungry."

Elnora gave him the remainder of the carefully prepared lunch. 

The boy clutched it and ran with a sidewise hop like a

wild thing.  She covered the dishes and cup, polished the

spoon, replaced it, and closed the case.  She caught her

breath in a tremulous laugh.

"If Aunt Margaret knew that, she'd never forgive me,"

she said.  "It seems as if secrecy is literally forced upon

me, and I hate it.  What shall I do for lunch?  I'll have to

sell my arrows and keep enough money for a restaurant sandwich."

So she walked hurriedly into town, sold her points at a

good price, deposited her funds, and went away with a

neat little bank book and the note from the Limberlost

carefully folded inside.  Elnora passed down the hall that

morning, and no one paid the slightest attention to her. 

The truth was she looked so like every one else that she

was perfectly inconspicuous.  But in the coat room there

were members of her class.  Surely no one intended it,

but the whisper was too loud.

"Look at the girl from the Limberlost in the clothes that

woman gave her!"

Elnora turned on them.  "I beg your pardon," she said

unsteadily, "I couldn't help hearing that!  No one gave

me these clothes.  I paid for them myself."

Some one muttered, "Pardon me," but incredulous faces

greeted her.

Elnora felt driven.  "Aunt Margaret selected them, and she

meant to give them to me," she explained, "but I wouldn't

take them.  I paid for them myself."  There was silence.

"Don't you believe me?" panted Elnora.

"Really, it is none of our affair," said another girl. 

"Come on, let's go."

Elnora stepped before the girl who had spoken.  "You have

made this your affair," she said, "because you told a

thing which was not true.  No one gave me what I am wearing. 

I paid for my clothes myself with money I earned selling

moths to the Bird Woman.  I just came from the bank where

I deposited what I did not use.  Here is my credit." 

Elnora drew out and offered the little red book. 

"Surely you will believe that," she said.

"Why of course," said the girl who first had spoken. 

"We met such a lovely woman in Brownlee's store, and she

said she wanted our help to buy some things for a girl,

and that's how we came to know."

"Dear Aunt Margaret," said Elnora, "it was like her to

ask you.  Isn't she splendid?"

"She is indeed," chorused the girls.  Elnora set down her

lunch box and books, unpinned her hat, hanging it beside

the others, and taking up the books she reached to set the

box in its place and dropped it.  With a little cry she

snatched at it and caught the strap on top.  That pulled

from the fastening, the cover unrolled, the box fell away

as far as it could, two porcelain lids rattled on the floor,

and the one sandwich rolled like a cartwheel across the room. 

Elnora lifted a ghastly face.  For once no one laughed. 

She stood an instant staring.

"It seems to be my luck to be crucified at every point of

the compass," she said at last.  "First two days you

thought I was a pauper, now you will think I'm a fraud. 

All of you will believe I bought an expensive box, and then

was too poor to put anything but a restaurant sandwich in it. 

You must stop till I prove to you that I'm not."

Elnora gathered up the lids, and kicked the sandwich

into a corner.

"I had milk in that bottle, see!  And custard in the cup. 

There was salad in the little box, fried chicken in the large

one, and nut sandwiches in the tray.  You can see the

crumbs of all of them.  A man set a dog on a child who was

so starved he was stealing apples.  I talked with him, and

I thought I could bear hunger better, he was such a little boy,

so I gave him my lunch, and got the sandwich at the restaurant."

Elnora held out the box.  The girls were laughing by

that time.  "You goose," said one, "why didn't you give

him the money, and save your lunch?"

"He was such a little fellow, and he really was hungry,"

said Elnora.  "I often go without anything to eat at noon

in the fields and woods, and never think of it."

She closed the box and set it beside the lunches of other

country pupils.  While her back was turned, into the

room came the girl of her encounter on the first day,

walked to the rack, and with an exclamation of approval

took down Elnora's hat.

"Just the thing I have been wanting!" she said.  "I never

saw such beautiful quills in all my life.  They match

my new broadcloth to perfection.  I've got to have that

kind of quills for my hat.  I never saw the like!  Whose is

it, and where did it come from?"

No one said a word, for Elnora's question, the reply, and

her answer, had been repeated.  Every one knew that the

Limberlost girl had come out ahead and Sadie Reed had

not been amiable, when the little flourish had been added

to Elnora's name in the algebra class.  Elnora's swift

glance was pathetic, but no one helped her.  Sadie Reed

glanced from the hat to the faces around her and wondered.

"Why, this is the Freshman section, whose hat is it?"

she asked again, this time impatiently.

"That's the tassel of the cornstock," said Elnora with a

forced laugh.

The response was genuine.  Every one shouted.  Sadie Reed

blushed, but she laughed also.

"Well, it's beautiful," she said, "especially the quills. 

They are exactly what I want.  I know I don't deserve

any kindness from you, but I do wish you would tell me

at whose store you found those quills."

"Gladly!" said Elnora.  You can't buy quills like those

at a store.  They are from a living bird.  Phoebe Simms

gathers them in her orchard as her peacocks shed them. 

They are wing quills from the males."

Then there was perfect silence.  How was Elnora to

know that not a girl there would have told that?

"I haven't a doubt but I can get you some," she offered. 

"She gave Aunt Margaret a large bunch, and those are part

of them.  I am quite sure she has more, and would spare some."

Sadie Reed laughed shortly.  "You needn't trouble,"

she said, "I was fooled.  I thought they were expensive quills. 

I wanted them for a twenty-dollar velvet toque to match my

new suit.  If they are gathered from the ground, really,

I couldn't use them."

"Only in spots!" said Elnora.  "They don't just cover

the earth.  Phoebe Simms's peacocks are the only ones

within miles of Onabasha, and they moult but once a year. 

If your hat cost only twenty dollars, it's scarcely good

enough for those quills.  You see, the Almighty made and

coloured those Himself; and He puts the same kind on

Phoebe Simms's peacocks that He put on the head of the

family in the forests of Ceylon, away back in the beginning. 

Any old manufactured quill from New York or Chicago

will do for your little twenty-dollar hat.  You should have

something infinitely better than that to be worthy of quills

that are made by the Creator."

How those girls did laugh!  One of them walked with

Elnora to the auditorium, sat beside her during exercises,

and tried to talk whenever she dared, to keep Elnora

from seeing the curious and admiring looks bent upon her.

For the brown-eyed boy whistled, and there was pantomime

of all sorts going on behind Elnora's back that day. 

Happy with her books, no one knew how much she saw,

and from her absorption in her studies it was evident she

cared too little to notice.

After school she went again to the home of the Bird

Woman, and together they visited the swamp and carried

away more specimens.  This time Elnora asked the Bird

Woman to keep the money until noon of the next day,

when she would call for it and have it added to her

bank account.  She slowly walked home, for the visit to

the swamp had brought back full force the experience of

the morning.  Again and again she examined the crude little

note, for she did not know what it meant, yet it bred

vague fear.  The only thing of which Elnora knew herself

afraid was her mother; when with wild eyes and ears deaf to

childish pleading, she sometimes lost control of herself in

the night and visited the pool where her husband had sunk

before her, calling his name in unearthly tones and begging

of the swamp to give back its dead.

CHAPTER VI

WHEREIN MRS. COMSTOCK INDULGES IN "FRILLS,"

AND BILLY REAPPEARS

It was Wesley Sinton who really wrestled with

Elnora's problem while he drove about his business. 

He was not forced to ask himself what it meant; he knew. 

The old Corson gang was still holding together. 

Elder members who had escaped the law had been joined by

a younger brother of Jack's, and they met in the thickest

of the few remaining fast places of the swamp to drink,

gamble, and loaf.  Then suddenly, there would be a

robbery in some country house where a farmer that day had

sold his wheat or corn and not paid a visit to the bank;

or in some neighbouring village.

The home of Mrs. Comstock and Elnora adjoined the swamp. 

Sinton's land lay next, and not another residence or man

easy to reach in case of trouble.  Whoever wrote that

note had some human kindness in his breast, but the fact

stood revealed that he feared his strength if Elnora were

delivered into his hands.  Where had he been the previous

night when he heard that prayer?  Was that the first time

he had been in such proximity?  Sinton drove fast,

for he wished to reach the swamp before Elnora and the

Bird Woman would go there.

At almost four he came to the case, and dropping on his

knees studied the ground, every sense alert.  He found

two or three little heel prints.  Those were made by

Elnora or the Bird Woman.  What Sinton wanted to learn

was whether all the remainder were the footprints of

one man.  It was easily seen, they were not.  There were

deep, even tracks made by fairly new shoes, and others

where a well-worn heel cut deeper on the inside of

the print than at the outer edge.  Undoubtedly some of

Corson's old gang were watching the case, and the visits

of the women to it.  There was no danger that any one

would attack the Bird Woman.  She never went to the

swamp at night, and on her trips in the daytime, every one

knew that she carried a revolver, understood how to use it,

and pursued her work in a fearless manner.

Elnora, prowling around the swamp and lured into the

interior by the flight of moths and butterflies; Elnora,

without father, money, or friends save himself, to defend

her--Elnora was a different proposition.  For this to

happen just when the Limberlost was bringing the very

desire of her heart to the girl, it was too bad.

Sinton was afraid for her, yet he did not want to add

the burden of fear to Katharine Comstock's trouble, or to

disturb the joy of Elnora in her work.  He stopped at the

cabin and slowly went up the walk.  Mrs. Comstock was

sitting on the front steps with some sewing.  The work

seemed to Sinton as if she might be engaged in putting a

tuck in a petticoat.  He thought of how Margaret had

shortened Elnora's dress to the accepted length for girls of

her age, and made a mental note of Mrs. Comstock's occupation.

She dropped her work on her lap, laid her hands on it

and looked into his face with a sneer.

"You didn't let any grass grow under your feet," she said.

Sinton saw her white, drawn face and comprehended.

"I went to pay a debt and see about this opening of the

ditch, Kate."

"You said you were going to prosecute me."

"Good gracious, Kate!" cried Sinton.  "Is that what

you have been thinking all day?  I told you before I left

yesterday that I would not need do that.  And I won't! 

We can't afford to quarrel over Elnora.  She's all we've got. 

Now that she has proved that if you don't do just

what I think you ought by way of clothes and schooling,

she can take care of herself, I put that out of my head. 

What I came to see you about is a kind of scare I've

had to-day.  I want to ask you if you ever see anything

about the swamp that makes you think the old Corson gang

is still at work?"

"Can't say that I do," said Mrs. Comstock.  "There's kind

of dancing lights there sometimes, but I supposed it

was just people passing along the road with lanterns. 

Folks hereabout are none too fond of the swamp.  I hate

it like death.  I've never stayed here a night in my

life without Robert's revolver, clean and loaded, under

my pillow, and the shotgun, same condition, by the bed. 

I can't say that I'm afraid here at home.  I'm not.  I can

take care of myself.  But none of the swamp for me!"

"Well, I'm glad you are not afraid, Kate, because I

must tell you something.  Elnora stopped at the case

this morning, and somebody had been into it in the night."

"Broke the lock?"

"No.  Used a duplicate key.  To-day I heard there was

a man here last night.  I want to nose around a little."

Sinton went to the east end of the cabin and looked

up at the window.  There was no way any one could

have reached it without a ladder, for the logs were hewed

and mortar filled the cracks even.  Then he went to the

west end, the willow faced him as he turned the corner. 

He examined the trunk carefully.  There was no mistake

about small particles of black swamp muck adhering to

the sides of the tree.  He reached the low branches and

climbed the willow.  There was earth on the large limb

crossing Elnora's window.  He stood on it, holding the

branch as had been done the night before, and looked into

the room.  He could see very little, but he knew that if

it had been dark outside and sufficiently light for Elnora

to study inside he could have seen vividly.  He brought

his face close to the netting, and he could see the bed with

its head to the east, at its foot the table with the candles

and the chair before it, and then he knew where the man

had been who had heard Elnora's prayer.

Mrs. Comstock had followed around the corner and stood

watching him.  "Do you think some slinking hulk was up

there peekin' in at Elnora?" she demanded indignantly.

"There is muck on the trunk, and plenty on the limb,"

said Sinton.  "Hadn't you better get a saw and let me

take this branch off?"

"No, I hadn't," said Mrs. Comstock.  "First place,

Elnora's climbed from that window on that limb all her

life, and it's hers.  Second place, no one gets ahead of me

after I've had warning.  Any crow that perches on that

roost again will get its feathers somewhat scattered. 

Look along the fence, there, and see if you can find

where he came in."

The place was easy to find as was a trail leading for

some distance west of the cabin.

"You just go home, and don't fret yourself," said

Mrs. Comstock.  "I'll take care of this.  If you should

hear the dinner bell at any time in the night you come down. 

But I wouldn't say anything to Elnora.  She better

keep her mind on her studies, if she's going to school."

When the work was finished that night Elnora took

her books and went to her room to prepare some lessons,

but every few minutes she looked toward the swamp to

see if there were lights near the case.  Mrs. Comstock

raked together the coals in the cooking stove, got out

the lunch box, and sitting down she studied it grimly. 

At last she arose.

"Wonder how it would do to show Mag Sinton a frill

or two," she murmured.

She went to her room, knelt before a big black-walnut

chest and hunted through its contents until she found

an old-fashioned cook book.  She tended the fire as she

read and presently was in action.  She first sawed an

end from a fragrant, juicy, sugar-cured ham and put

it to cook.  Then she set a couple of eggs boiling, and

after long hesitation began creaming butter and sugar

in a crock.  An hour later the odour of the ham, mingled

with some of the richest spices of "happy Araby," in a

combination that could mean nothing save spice cake,

crept up to Elnora so strongly that she lifted her head

and sniffed amazedly.  She would have given all her

precious money to have gone down and thrown her arms

around her mother's neck, but she did not dare move.

Mrs. Comstock was up early, and without a word

handed Elnora the case as she left the next morning.

"Thank you, mother," said Elnora, and went on her way.

She walked down the road looking straight ahead until

she came to the corner, where she usually entered

the swamp.  She paused, glanced that way and smiled. 

Then she turned and looked back.  There was no one

coming in any direction.  She followed the road until

well around the corner, then she stopped and sat on a

grassy spot, laid her books beside her and opened the

lunch box.  Last night's odours had in a measure prepared

her for what she would see, but not quite.  She scarcely

could believe her senses.  Half the bread compartment

was filled with dainty sandwiches of bread and butter

sprinkled with the yolk of egg and the remainder with three

large slices of the most fragrant spice cake imaginable. 

The meat dish contained shaved cold ham, of which she

knew the quality, the salad was tomatoes and celery,

and the cup held preserved pear, clear as amber. 

There was milk in the bottle, two tissue-wrapped cucumber

pickles in the folding drinking-cup, and a fresh napkin in

the ring.  No lunch was ever daintier or more palatable;

of that Elnora was perfectly sure.  And her mother had

prepared it for her!  "She does love me!" cried the happy girl. 

"Sure as you're born she loves me; only she hasn't found

it out yet!"

She touched the papers daintily, and smiled at the

box as if it were a living thing.  As she began closing

it a breath of air swept by, lifting the covering of

the cake.  It was like an invitation, and breakfast was

several hours away.  Elnora picked up a piece and ate it. 

That cake tasted even better than it looked.  Then she

tried a sandwich.  How did her mother come to think of

making them that way.  They never had any at home. 

She slipped out the fork, sampled the salad, and one-quarter

of pear.  Then she closed the box and started down the

road nibbling one of the pickles and trying to decide

exactly how happy she was, but she could find no standard

high enough for a measure.

She was to go to the Bird Woman's after school for

the last load from the case.  Saturday she would take

the arrow points and specimens to the bank.  That would

exhaust her present supplies and give her enough money

ahead to pay for books, tuition, and clothes for at

least two years.  She would work early and late

gathering nuts.  In October she would sell all the ferns

she could find.  She must collect specimens of all tree

leaves before they fell, gather nests and cocoons later,

and keep her eyes wide open for anything the grades could use. 

She would see the superintendent that night about selling

specimens to the ward buildings.  She must be ahead of

any one else if she wanted to furnish these things.  So she

approached the bridge.

That it was occupied could be seen from a distance. 

As she came up she found the small boy of yesterday

awaiting her with a confident smile.

"We brought you something!" he announced without greeting. 

"This is Jimmy and Belle--and we brought you a present."

He offered a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

"Why, how lovely of you!" said Elnora.  "I supposed

you had forgotten me when you ran away so fast yesterday."

"Naw, I didn't forget you," said the boy.  "I wouldn't

forget you, not ever!  Why, I was ist a-hurrying to take

them things to Jimmy and Belle.  My they was glad!"

Elnora glanced at the children.  They sat on the edge

of the bridge, obviously clad in a garment each, very dirty

and unkept, a little boy and a girl of about seven and nine. 

Elnora's heart began to ache.

"Say," said the boy.  "Ain't you going to look what

we have gave you?"

"I thought it wasn't polite to look before people,"

answered Elnora.  "Of course, I will, if you would like

to have me."

Elnora opened the package.  She had been presented

with a quarter of a stale loaf of baker's bread, and a

big piece of ancient bologna.

"But don't you want this yourselves?" she asked in surprise.

"Gosh, no!  I mean ist no," said the boy.  "We always

have it.  We got stacks this morning.  Pa's come out

of it now, and he's so sorry he got more 'an ever we

can eat.  Have you had any before?"

"No," said Elnora, "I never did!"

The boy's eyes brightened and the girl moved restlessly.

"We thought maybe you hadn't," said the boy.  "First you

ever have, you like it real well; but when you don't

have anything else for a long time, years an' years, you

git so tired."  He hitched at the string which held his

trousers and watched Elnora speculatively.

"I don't s'pose you'd trade what you got in that box

for ist old bread and bologna now, would you?  Mebby you'd

like it!  And I know, I ist know, what you got would

taste like heaven to Jimmy and Belle.  They never had

nothing like that!  Not even Belle, and she's most ten! 

No, sir-ee, they never tasted things like you got!"

It was in Elnora's heart to be thankful for even a taste

in time, as she knelt on the bridge, opened the box and

divided her lunch into three equal parts, the smaller boy

getting most of the milk.  Then she told them it was

school time and she must go.

"Why don't you put your bread and bologna in the nice box?"

asked the boy.

"Of course," said Elnora.  "I didn't think."

When the box was arranged to the children's satisfaction

all of them accompanied Elnora to the corner where she

turned toward the high school.

"Billy," said Elnora, "I would like you much better if

you were cleaner.  Surely, you have water!  Can't you

children get some soap and wash yourselves?  Gentlemen are

never dirty.  You want to be a gentleman, don't you?"

"Is being clean all you have to do to be a gentleman?"

"No," said Elnora.  "You must not say bad words, and

you must be kind and polite to your sister."

"Must Belle be kind and polite to me, else she ain't a lady?"

"Yes."

"Then Belle's no lady!" said Billy succinctly.

Elnora could say nothing more just then, and she bade

them good-bye and started them home.

"The poor little souls!" she mused.  "I think the Almighty

put them in my way to show me real trouble.  I won't be

likely to spend much time pitying myself while I can

see them."   She glanced at the lunchbox.  "What on

earth do I carry this for?  I never had anything that was

so strictly ornamental!  One sure thing!  I can't take

this stuff to the high school.  You never seem to know

exactly what is going to happen to you while you are there."

As if to provide a way out of her difficulty a big dog

arose from a lawn, and came toward the gate wagging his tail. 

"If those children ate the stuff, it can't possibly kill him!"

thought Elnora, so she offered the bologna.  The dog

accepted it graciously, and being a beast of pedigree

he trotted around to a side porch and laid the bologna

before his mistress.  The woman snatched it, screaming: 

"Come, quick!  Some one is trying to poison Pedro!" 

Her daughter came running from the house.  "Go see

who is on the street.  Hurry!" cried the excited mother.

Ellen Brownlee ran and looked.  Elnora was half a

block away, and no one nearer.  Ellen called loudly, and

Elnora stopped.  Ellen came running toward her.

"Did you see any one give our dog something?" she

cried as she approached.

Elnora saw no escape.

"I gave it a piece of bologna myself," she said.  "It was

fit to eat.  It wouldn't hurt the dog."

Ellen stood and looked at her.  "Of course, I didn't

know it was your dog," explained Elnora.  "I had something

I wanted to throw to some dog, and that one looked big

enough to manage it."

Ellen had arrived at her conclusions.  "Pass over that

lunch box," she demanded.

"I will not!" said Elnora.

"Then I will have you arrested for trying to poison our

dog," laughed the girl as she took the box.

"One chunk of stale bread, one half mile of antique

bologna contributed for dog feed; the remains of cake, salad

and preserves in an otherwise empty lunch box.  One ham

sandwich yesterday.  I think it's lovely you have the box. 

Who ate your lunch to-day?"

"Same," confessed Elnora, "but there were three of

them this time."

"Wait, until I run back and tell mother about the dog,

and get my books."

Elnora waited.  That morning she walked down the

hall and into the auditorium beside one of the very nicest

girls in Onabasha, and it was the fourth day.  But the

surprise came at noon when Ellen insisted upon Elnora

lunching at the Brownlee home, and convulsed her parents

and family, and overwhelmed Elnora with a greatly magnified,

but moderately accurate history of her lunch box.

"Gee! but it's a box, daddy!" cried the laughing girl. 

"It's carved leather and fastens with a strap that has her

name on it.  Inside are trays for things all complete, and

it bears evidence of having enclosed delicious food, but

Elnora never gets any.  She's carried it two days now, and

both times it has been empty before she reached school. 

Isn't that killing?"

"It is, Ellen, in more ways than one.  No girl is going

to eat breakfast at six o'clock, walk three miles, and do

good work without her lunch.  You can't tell me anything

about that box.  I sold it last Monday night to Wesley

Sinton, one of my good country customers.  He told me it

was a present for a girl who was worthy of it, and I see he

was right."

"He's so good to me," said Elnora.  "Sometimes I look

at him and wonder if a neighbour can be so kind to one,

what a real father would be like.  I envy a girl with a

father unspeakably."

"You have cause," said Ellen Brownlee.  "A father is

the very dearest person in the whole round world, except a

mother, who is just a dear."  The girl, starting to pay

tribute to her father, saw that she must include her mother,

and said the thing before she remembered what Mrs. Sinton

had told the girls in the store.  She stopped in dismay. 

Elnora's face paled a trifle, but she smiled bravely.

"Then I'm fortunate in having a mother," she said.

Mr. Brownlee lingered at the table after the girls had

excused themselves and returned to school.

"There's a girl Ellen can't see too much of, in my

opinion," he said.  "She is every inch a lady, and not a

foolish notion or action about her.  I can't understand

just what combination of circumstances produced her in

this day."

"It has been an unusual case of repression, for one thing. 

She waits on her elders and thinks before she speaks,"

said Mrs. Brownlee.

"She's mighty pretty.  She looks so sound and wholesome,

and she's neatly dressed."

"Ellen says she was a fright the first two days.  Long brown

calico dress almost touching the floor, and big,

lumbering shoes.  Those Sinton people bought her clothes. 

Ellen was in the store, and the woman stopped her crowd

and asked them about their dresses.  She said the girl

was not poor, but her mother was selfish and didn't

care for her.  But Elnora showed a bank book the next

day, and declared that she paid for the things herself,

so the Sinton people must just have selected them. 

There's something peculiar about it, but nothing wrong

I am sure.  I'll encourage Ellen to ask her again."

"I should say so, especially if she is going to keep on

giving away her lunch."

"She lunched with the Bird Woman one day this week."

"She did!"

"Yes, she lives out by the Limberlost.  You know the

Bird Woman works there a great deal, and probably

knows her that way.  I think the girl gathers specimens

for her.  Ellen says she knows more than the teachers

about any nature question that comes up, and she is going

to lead all of them in mathematics, and make them work

in any branch."

When Elnora entered the coat room after having had

luncheon with Ellen Brownlee there was such a difference

in the atmosphere that she could feel it.

"I am almost sorry I have these clothes," she said to Ellen.

"In the name of sense, why?" cried the astonished girl.

"Every one is so nice to me in them, it sets me to

wondering if in time I could have made them be equally

friendly in the others."

Ellen looked at her introspectively.  "I believe you

could," she announced at last.  "But it would have taken

time and heartache, and your mind would have been less

free to work on your studies.  No one is happy without

friends, and I just simply can't study when I am unhappy."

That night the Bird Woman made the last trip to the swamp. 

Every specimen she possibly could use had been purchased

at a fair price, and three additions had been made to the

bank book, carrying the total a little past two hundred dollars. 

There remained the Indian relics to sell on Saturday,

and Elnora had secured the order to furnish material for

nature work for the grades.  Life suddenly grew very full. 

There was the most excitingly interesting work for every hour,

and that work was to pay high school expenses and start the

college fund.  There was one little rift in her joy. 

All of it would have been so much better if she could have

told her mother, and given the money into her keeping;

but the struggle to get a start had been so terrible,

Elnora was afraid to take the risk.  When she reached home,

she only told her mother that the last of the things had

been sold that evening.

"I think," said Mrs. Comstock, "that we will ask Wesley

to move that box over here back of the garden for you. 

There you are apt to get tolled farther into the swamp

than you intend to go, and you might mire or something. 

There ought to be just the same things in our woods,

and along our swampy places, as there are in the Limberlost. 

Can't you hunt your stuff here?"

"I can try," said Elnora.  "I don't know what I can

find until I do.  Our woods are undisturbed, and there

is a possibility they might be even better hunting than

the swamp.  But I wouldn't have Freckles's case moved for

the world.  He might come back some day, and not like it. 

I've tried to keep his room the best I could, and taking out

the box would make a big hole in one side of it.  Store boxes

don't cost much.  I will have Uncle Wesley buy me one,

and set it up wherever hunting looks the best, early in

the spring.  I would feel safer at home."

"Shall we do the work or have supper first?"

"Let's do the work," said Elnora.  "I can't say that

I'm hungry now.  Doesn't seem as if I ever could be

hungry again with such a lunch.  I am quite sure no one

carried more delicious things to eat than I."

Mrs. Comstock was pleased.  "I put in a pretty good

hunk of cake.  Did you divide it with any one?"

"Why, yes, I did," admitted Elnora.

"Who?"

This was becoming uncomfortable.  "I ate the biggest

piece myself," said Elnora, "and gave the rest to a couple

of boys named Jimmy and Billy and a girl named Belle. 

They said it was the very best cake they ever tasted in all

their lives."

Mrs. Comstock sat straight.  "I used to be a master

hand at spice cake," she boasted.  "But I'm a little out

of practice.  I must get to work again.  With the very

weeds growing higher than our heads, we should raise

plenty of good stuff to eat on this land, if we can't afford

anything else but taxes."

Elnora laughed and hurried up stairs to change her dress. 

Margaret Sinton came that night bringing a beautiful blue

one in its place, and carried away the other to launder.

"Do you mean to say those dresses are to be washed

every two days?" questioned Mrs. Comstock.

"They have to be, to look fresh," replied Margaret. 

"We want our girl sweet as a rose."

"Well, of all things!" cried Mrs. Comstock.  "Every two days! 

Any girl who can't keep a dress clean longer than that is a

dirty girl.  You'll wear the goods out and fade the colours

with so much washing."

"We'll have a clean girl, anyway."

"Well, if you like the job you can have it," said Mrs. Comstock. 

"I don't mind the washing, but I'm so inconvenient with an iron."

Elnora sat late that night working over her lessons. 

The next morning she put on her blue dress and ribbon

and in those she was a picture.  Mrs. Comstock caught

her breath with a queer stirring around her heart, and

looked twice to be sure of what she saw.  As Elnora

gathered her books her mother silently gave her the lunch box.

"Feels heavy," said Elnora gaily.  "And smelly!  Like as not

I'll be called upon to divide again."

"Then you divide!" said Mrs. Comstock.  "Eating is

the one thing we don't have to economize on, Elnora. 

Spite of all I can do food goes to waste in this soil

every day.  If you can give some of those city children

a taste of the real thing, why, don't be selfish."

Elnora went down the road thinking of the city children

with whom she probably would divide.  Of course,

the bridge would be occupied again.  So she stopped and

opened the box.

"I don't want to be selfish," murmured Elnora, "but

it really seems as if I can't give away this lunch. 

If mother did not put love into it, she's substituted

something that's likely to fool me."

She almost felt her steps lagging as she approached

the bridge.  A very hungry dog had been added to the trio

of children.  Elnora loved all dogs, and as usual, this one

came to her in friendliness.  The children said "Good morning!"

with alacrity, and another paper parcel layconspicuous.

"How are you this morning?" inquired Elnora.

"All right!" cried the three, while the dog sniffed ravenously

at the lunch box, and beat a perfect tattoo with his tail.

"How did you like the bologna?" questioned Billy eagerly.

"One of the girls took me to lunch at her home yesterday,"

answered Elnora.

Dawn broke beautifully over Billy's streaked face. 

He caught the package and thrust it toward Elnora.

"Then maybe you'd like to try the bologna to-day!"

The dog leaped in glad apprehension of something, and

Belle scrambled to her feet and took a step forward. 

The look of famished greed in her eyes was more than Elnora

could endure.  It was not that she cared for the food

so much.  Good things to eat had been in abundance all

her life.  She wanted with this lunch to try to absorb

what she felt must be an expression of some sort from her

mother, and if it were not a manifestation of love, she

did not know what to think it.  But it was her mother

who had said "be generous."  She knelt on the bridge. 

"Keep back the dog!" she warned the elder boy.

She opened the box and divided the milk between Billy

and the girl.  She gave each a piece of cake leaving

one and a sandwich.  Billy pressed forward eagerly, bitter

disappointment on his face, and the elder boy forgot his charge.

"Aw, I thought they'd be meat!" lamented Billy.

Elnora could not endure that.

"There is!" she said gladly.  "There is a little pigeon bird. 

I want a teeny piece of the breast, for a sort of keepsake,

just one bite, and you can have the rest among you".

Elnora drew the knife from its holder and cut off

the wishbone.  Then she held the bird toward the girl.

"You can divide it," she said.  The dog made a bound

and seizing the squab sprang from the bridge and ran

for life.  The girl and boy hurried after him.  With awful

eyes Billy stared and swore tempestuously.  Elnora caught

him and clapped her hand over the little mouth. 

A delivery wagon came tearing down the street, the horse

running full speed, passed the fleeing dog with the girl

and boy in pursuit, and stopped at the bridge.  High school

girls began to roll from all sides of it.

"A rescue!  A rescue!" they shouted.

It was Ellen Brownlee and her crowd, and every girl

of them carried a big parcel.  They took in the scene

as they approached.  The fleeing dog with something

in its mouth, the half-naked girl and boy chasing it told

the story.  Those girls screamed with laughter as they

watched the pursuit.

"Thank goodness, I saved the wishbone!" said Elnora. 

"As usual, I can prove that there was a bird." 

She turned toward the box.  Billy had improved the time. 

He had the last piece of cake in one hand, and the last

bite of salad disappeared in one great gulp.  Then the

girls shouted again.

"Let's have a sample ourselves," suggested one.  She caught

up the box and handed out the remaining sandwich.  Another girl

divided it into bites each little over an inch square, and

then she lifted the cup lid and deposited a preserved

strawberry on each bite.  "One, two, three, altogether now!"

she cried.

"You old mean things!" screamed Billy.

In an instant he was down in the road and handfuls of dust

began to fly among them.  The girls scattered before him.

"Billy!" cried Elnora.  "Billy!  I'll never give you

another bite, if you throw dust on any one!"

Then Billy dropped the dust, bored both fists into his

eyes, and fled sobbing into Elnora's new blue skirt. 

She stooped to meet him and consolation began.  Those girls

laughed on.  They screamed and shouted until the little

bridge shook.

"To-morrow might as well be a clear day," said Ellen,

passing around and feeding the remaining berries to the

girls as they could compose themselves enough to take them. 

"Billy, I admire your taste more than your temper."

Elnora looked up.  "The little soul is nothing but skin

and bones," she said.  "I never was really hungry myself;

were any of you?"

"Well, I should say so," cried a plump, rosy girl.

"I'm famished right now.  Let's have breakfast immediate!"

"We got to refill this box first!" said Ellen Brownlee.

"Who's got the butter?"  A girl advanced with a wooden tray.

"Put it in the preserve cup, a little strawberry flavour

won't hurt it.  Next!" called Ellen.

A loaf of bread was produced and Ellen cut off a piece

which filled the sandwich box.

"Next!"  A bottle of olives was unwrapped.  The grocer's

boy who was waiting opened that, and Ellen filled the

salad dish.

"Next!"

A bag of macaroons was produced and the cake compartment filled.

"Next!"

"I don't suppose this will make quite as good dog feed

as a bird," laughed a girl holding open a bag of sliced

ham while Ellen filled the meat dish.

"Next!"

A box of candy was handed her and she stuffed every

corner of the lunch box with chocolates and nougat. 

Then it was closed and formally presented to Elnora. 

The girls each helped themselves to candy and olives,

and gave Billy the remainder of the food.  Billy took

one bite of ham, and approved.  Belle and Jimmy had

given up chasing the dog, and angry and ashamed, stood

waiting half a block away.

"Come back!" cried Billy.  "You great big dunces,

come back!  They's a new kind of meat, and cake and candy."

The boy delayed, but the girl joined Billy.  Ellen wiped

her fingers, stepped to the cement abutment and began

reciting "Horatio at the Bridge!" substituting Elnora

wherever the hero appeared in the lines.

Elnora gathered up the sacks, and gave them to Belle,

telling her to take the food home, cut and spread the

bread, set things on the table, and eat nicely.

Then Elnora was taken into the wagon with the girls,

and driven on the run to the high school.  They sang a

song beginning--

               "Elnora, please give me a sandwich.

                I'm ashamed to ask for cake"

as they went.  Elnora did not know it, but that was

her initiation.  She belonged to "the crowd."  She only

knew that she was happy, and vaguely wondered what

her mother and Aunt Margaret would have said about

the proceedings.

CHAPTER VII

WHEREIN MRS. COMSTOCK MANIPULATES MARGARET

AND BILLY ACQUIRES A RESIDENCE

Saturday morning Elnora helped her mother with the work. 

When she had finished Mrs. Comstock told her to go to

Sintons' and wash her Indian relics, so that she would

be ready to accompany Wesley to town in the afternoon. 

Elnora hurried down the road and was soon at the cistern

with a tub busily washing arrow points, stone axes, tubes,

pipes, and skin-cleaning implements.

Then she went home, dressed and was waiting when the

carriage reached the gate.  She stopped at the bank with

the box, and Sinton went to do his marketing and some

shopping for his wife.

At the dry goods store Mr. Brownlee called to him, 

"Hello, Sinton!  How do you like the fate of your lunch

box?" Then he began to laugh--

"I always hate to see a man laughing alone," said Sinton. 

It looks so selfish!  Tell me the fun, and let me

help you."

Mr. Brownlee wiped his eyes.

"I supposed you knew, but I see she hasn't told."

Then the three days' history of the lunch box was

repeated with particulars which included the dog.

"Now laugh!" concluded Mr. Brownlee.

"Blest if I see anything funny!" replied Wesley Sinton. 

"And if you had bought that box and furnished one of

those lunches yourself, you wouldn't either.  I call such

a work a shame!  I'll have it stopped."

"Some one must see to that, all right.  They are

little leeches.  Their father earns enough to support them,

but they have no mother, and they run wild.  I suppose

they are crazy for cooked food.  But it is funny, and

when you think it over you will see it, if you don't now."

"About where would a body find that father?" inquired

Wesley Sinton grimly.  Mr. Brownlee told him and he

started, locating the house with little difficulty. 

House was the proper word, for of home there was no sign. 

Just a small empty house with three unkept little children

racing through and around it.  The girl and the elder

boy hung back, but dirty little Billy greeted Sinton with: 

"What you want here?"

"I want to see your father," said Sinton.)

"Well, he's asleep," said Billy.

"Where?" asked Sinton.

"In the house," answered Billy, "and you can't wake him."

"Well, I'll try," said Wesley.

Billy led the way.  "There he is!" he said.  "He is

drunk again."

On a dirty mattress in a corner lay a man who appeared

to be strong and well.  Billy was right.  You could not

awake him.  He had gone the limit, and a little beyond.

He was now facing eternity.  Sinton went out and closed

the door.

"Your father is sick and needs help," he said. 

"You stay here, and I will send a man to see him."

"If you just let him 'lone, he'll sleep it off,"

volunteered Billy.  "He's that way all the time,

but he wakes up and gets us something to eat after awhile. 

Only waitin' twists you up inside pretty bad."

The boy wore no air of complaint.  He was merely

stating facts.

Wesley Sinton looked intently at Billy.  "Are you

twisted up inside now?" he asked.

Billy laid a grimy hand on the region of his stomach and

the filthy little waist sank close to the backbone. 

"Bet yer life, boss," he said cheerfully.

"How long have you been twisted?" asked Sinton.

Billy appealed to the others.  "When was it we had the

stuff on the bridge?"

"Yesterday morning," said the girl.

"Is that all gone?" asked Sinton.

"She went and told us to take it home," said Billy ruefully,

"and 'cos she said to, we took it.  Pa had come back,

he was drinking some more, and he ate a lot of it--

almost the whole thing, and it made him sick as a dog, and

he went and wasted all of it.  Then he got drunk some

more, and now he's asleep again.  We didn't get hardly none."

"You children sit on the steps until the man comes,"

said Sinton.  "I'll send you some things to eat with him. 

What's your name, sonny?"

"Billy," said the boy.

"Well, Billy, I guess you better come with me.  I'll take

care of him," Sinton promised the others.  He reached a

hand to Billy.

"I ain't no baby, I'm a boy!" said Billy, as he shuffled

along beside Sinton, taking a kick at every movable object

without regard to his battered toes.

Once they passed a Great Dane dog lolling after its master,

and Billy ascended Sinton as if he were a tree, and

clung to him with trembling hot hands.

"I ain't afraid of that dog," scoffed Billy, as he was

again placed on the walk, "but onc't he took me for a rat

or somepin' and his teeth cut into my back.  If I'd a done

right, I'd a took the law on him."

Sinton looked down into the indignant little face.  The child

was bright enough, he had a good head, but oh, such a body!

"I 'bout got enough of dogs," said Billy.  "I used to

like 'em, but I'm getting pretty tired.  You ought to seen

the lickin' Jimmy and Belle and me give our dog when we

caught him, for taking a little bird she gave us.  We waited

'till he was asleep 'nen laid a board on him and all of us

jumped on it to onc't.  You could a heard him yell a mile. 

Belle said mebbe we could squeeze the bird out of him. 

But, squeeze nothing!  He was holler as us, and that bird

was lost long 'fore it got to his stummick.  It was ist a

little one, anyway.  Belle said it wouldn't 'a' made a bite

apiece for three of us nohow, and the dog got one good swaller. 

We didn't get much of the meat, either.  Pa took most

of that.  Seems like pas and dogs gets everything."

Billy laughed dolefully.  Involuntarily Wesley Sinton

reached his hand.  They were coming into the business part

of Onabasha and the streets were crowded.  Billy understood

it to mean that he might lose his companion and took a grip. 

That little hot hand clinging tight to his, the sore feet

recklessly scouring the walk, the hungry child panting for

breath as he tried to keep even, the brave soul jesting in

the face of hard luck, caught Sinton in a tender, empty spot.

"Say, son," he said.  "How would you like to be

washed clean, and have all the supper your skin could

hold, and sleep in a good bed?"

"Aw, gee!" said Billy.  "I ain't dead yet!  Them things

is in heaven!  Poor folks can't have them.  Pa said so."

"Well, you can have them if you want to go with me and

get them," promised Sinton.

"Honest?"

"Yes, honest."

"Crost yer heart?"

"Yes," said Sinton.

"Kin I take some to Jimmy and Belle?"

"If you'll come with me and be my boy, I'll see that they

have plenty."

"What will pa say?"

"Your pa is in that kind of sleep now where he won't

wake up, Billy," said Sinton.  "I am pretty sure the law

will give you to me, if you want to come."

"When people don't ever wake up they're dead,"

announced Billy.  "Is my pa dead?"

"Yes, he is," answered Sinton.

"And you'll take care of Jimmy and Belle, too?"

"I can't adopt all three of you," said Sinton.  "I'll take

you, and see that they are well provided for.  Will you come?"

"Yep, I'll come," said Billy.  "Let's eat, first thing we do."

"All right," agreed Sinton.  "Come into this restaurant." 

He lifted Billy to the lunch counter and ordered the clerk

to give him as many glasses of milk as he wanted, and a biscuit. 

"I think there's going to be fried chicken when we get home,

Billy," he said, "so you just take the edge off now, and fill

up later."

While Billy lunched Sinton called up the different departments

and notified the proper authorities ending with the Women's

Relief Association.  He sent a basket of food to Belle and Jimmy,

bought Billy a pair of trousers, and a shirt, and went to

bring Elnora.

"Why, Uncle Wesley!" cried the girl.  "Where did you

find Billy?"

"I've adopted him for the time being, if not longer,"

replied Wesley Sinton.

"Where did you get him?"

"Well, young woman," said Wesley Sinton, "Mr. Brownlee

told me the history of your lunch box.  It didn't

seem so funny to me as it does to the rest of them; so I

went to look up the father of Billy's family, and make him

take care of them, or allow the law to do it for him. 

It will have to be the law."

"He's deader than anything!" broke in Billy.  "He can't

ever take all the meat any more."

"Billy!" gasped Elnora.

"Never you mind!" said Sinton.  "A child doesn't say

such things about a father who loved and raised him right. 

When it happens, the father alone is to blame.  You won't

hear Billy talk like that about me when I cross over."

"You don't mean you are going to take him to keep!"

"I'll soon need help," said Wesley.  "Billy will come

in just about right ten years from now, and if I raise him

I'll have him the way I want him."

"But Aunt Margaret doesn't like boys," objected Elnora.

"Well, she likes me, and I used to be a boy.  Anyway, as

I remember she has had her way about everything at our

house ever since we were married.  I am going to please

myself about Billy.  Hasn't she always done just as she

chose so far as you know?  Honest, Elnora!"

"Honest!" replied Elnora.  "You are beautiful to all of

us, Uncle Wesley; but Aunt Margaret won't like Billy. 

She won't want him in her home."

"In our home," corrected Wesley.

"What makes you want him?" marvelled Elnora.

"God only knows," said Sinton.  "Billy ain't so beautiful,

and he ain't so smart, I guess it's because he's so human. 

My heart goes out to him."

"So did mine," said Elnora.  "I love him.  I'd rather

see him eat my lunch than have it myself any time."

"What makes you like him?" asked Wesley.

"Why, I don't know," pondered Elnora.  "He's so little,

he needs so much, he's got such splendid grit, and

he's perfectly unselfish with his brother and sister. 

But we must wash him before Aunt Margaret sees him. 

I wonder if mother----"

"You needn't bother.  I'm going to take him home the

way he is," said Sinton.  "I want Maggie to see the

worst of it."

"I'm afraid----" began Elnora.

"So am I," said Wesley, "but I won't give him up. 

He's taken a sort of grip on my heart.  I've always

been crazy for a boy.  Don't let him hear us."

"Don't let him be killed!" cried Elnora.  During their

talk Billy had wandered to the edge of the walk and

barely escaped the wheels of a passing automobile in an

effort to catch a stray kitten that seemed in danger.

Wesley drew Billy back to the walk, and held his hand closely. 

"Are you ready, Elnora?"

"Yes; you were gone a long time," she said.

Wesley glanced at a package she carried.  "Have to

have another book?" he asked.

"No, I bought this for mother.  I've had such splendid

luck selling my specimens, I didn't feel right about keeping

all the money for myself, so I saved enough from the

Indian relics to get a few things I wanted.  I would have

liked to have gotten her a dress, but I didn't dare, so I

compromised on a book."

"What did you select, Elnora?" asked Wesley wonderingly.

"Well," said she, "I have noticed mother always seemed

interested in anything Mark Twain wrote in the newspapers,

and I thought it would cheer her up a little, so I just

got his `Innocents Abroad.'  I haven't read it myself,

but I've seen mention made of it all my life, and the

critics say it's genuine fun."

"Good!" cried Sinton.  "Good!  You've made a

splendid choice.  It will take her mind off herself

a lot.  But she will scold you."

"Of course," assented Elnora.  "But, possibly she will

read it, and feel better.  I'm going to serve her a trick. 

I am going to hide it until Monday, and set it on her little

shelf of books the last thing before I go away.  She must

have all of them by heart.  When, she sees a new one she

can't help being glad, for she loves to read, and if she has

all day to become interested, maybe she'll like it so she

won't scold so much."

"We are both in for it, but I guess we are prepared. 

I don't know what Margaret will say, but I'm going to take

Billy home and see.  Maybe he can win with her, as he

did with us."

Elnora had doubts, but she did not say anything more. 

When they started home Billy sat on the front seat. 

He drove with the hitching strap tied to the railing of

the dash-board, flourished the whip, and yelled

with delight.  At first Sinton laughed with him, but

by the time he left Elnora with several packages at her

gate, he was looking serious enough.

Margaret was at the door as they drove up the lane. 

Wesley left Billy in the carriage, hitched the horses and

went to explain to her.  He had not reached her before she

cried, "Look, Wesley, that child!  You'll have a runaway!"

Wesley looked and ran.  Billy was standing in the

carriage slashing the mettlesome horses with the whip.

"See me make 'em go!" he shouted as the whip fell a

second time.

He did make them go.  They took the hitching post

and a few fence palings, which scraped the paint from

a wheel.  Sinton missed the lines at the first effort,

but the dragging post impeded the horses, and he soon

caught them.  He led them to the barn, and ordered Billy

to remain in the carriage while he unhitched.  Then leading

Billy and carrying his packages he entered the yard.

"You run play a few minutes, Billy," he said.  "I want

to talk to the nice lady."

The nice lady was looking rather stupefied as Wesley

approached her.

"Where in the name of sense did you get that awful

child?" she demanded.

"He is a young gentleman who has been stopping Elnora

and eating her lunch every day, part of the time

with the assistance of his brother and sister, while our

girl went hungry.  Brownlee told me about it at the store. 

It's happened three days running.  The first time she

went without anything, the second time Brownlee's girl

took her to lunch, and the third a crowd of high school

girls bought a lot of stuff and met them at the bridge. 

The youngsters seemed to think they could rob her every

day, so I went to see their father about having it stopped."

"Well, I should think so!" cried Margaret.

"There were three of them, Margaret," said Wesley,

"that little fellow----"

"Hyena, you mean," interpolated Margaret. 

"Hyena," corrected Wesley gravely, "and another

boy and a girl, all equally dirty and hungry.  The man

was dead.  They thought he was in a drunken sleep,

but he was stone dead.  I brought the little boy with

me, and sent the officers and other help to the house. 

He's half starved.  I want to wash him, and put clean

clothes on him, and give him some supper."

"Have you got anything to put on him?"

"Yes."

"Where did you get it?"

"Bought it.  It ain't much.  All I got didn't cost a dollar."

"A dollar is a  good deal when you work and save for

it the way we do."

"Well, I don't know a better place to put it.  Have you

got any hot water?  I'll use this tub at the cistern. 

Please give me some soap and towels."

Instead Margaret pushed by him with a shriek.  Billy had

played by producing a cord from his pocket, and having

tied the tails of Margaret's white kittens together, he had

climbed on a box and hung them across the clothes line. 

Wild with fright the kittens were clawing each other

to death, and the air was white with fur.  The string

had twisted and the frightened creatures could not

recognize friends.  Margaret stepped back with bleeding hands. 

Sinton cut the cord with his knife and the poor little cats

raced under the house bleeding and disfigured. 

Margaret white with wrath faced Wesley.

"If you don't hitch up and take that animal back to

town," she said, "I will."

Billy threw himself on the grass and began to scream.

"You said I could have fried chicken for supper,"

he wailed.  "You said she was a nice lady!"

Wesley lifted him and something in his manner of

handling the child infuriated Margaret.  His touch was

so gentle.  She reached for Billy and gripped his shirt

collar in the back.  Wesley's hand closed over hers.

"Gently, girl!" he said.  "This little body is covered

with sores."

"Sores!" she ejaculated.  "Sores?  What kind of sores?"

"Oh, they might be from bruises made by fists or boot

toes, or they might be bad blood, from wrong eating,

or they might be pure filth.  Will you hand me some towels?"

"No, I won't!" said Margaret.

"Well, give me some rags, then."

Margaret compromised on pieces of old tablecloth. 

Wesley led Billy to the cistern, pumped cold water into

the tub, poured in a kettle of hot, and beginning at the

head scoured him.  The boy shut his little teeth, and

said never a word though he twisted occasionally when

the soap struck a raw spot.  Margaret watched the process

from the window in amazed and ever-increasing anger. 

Where did Wesley learn it?  How could his big hands be

so gentle?  He came to the door.

"Have you got any peroxide?" he asked.

"A little," she answered stiffly.

"Well, I need about a pint, but I'll begin on what you have."

Margaret handed him the bottle.  Wesley took a cup,

weakened the drug and said to Billy:  "Man, these sores

on you must be healed.  Then you must eat the kind of

food that's fit for little men.  I am going to put some

medicine on you, and it is going to sting like fire.  If it

just runs off, I won't use any more.  If it boils, there is

poison in these places, and they must be tied up, dosed

every day, and you must be washed, and kept mighty clean. 

Now, hold still, because I am going to put it on."

"I think the one on my leg is the worst," said the undaunted

Billy, holding out a raw place.  Sinton poured on the drug. 

Billy's body twisted and writhed, but he did not run.

"Gee, look at it boil!" he cried.  "I guess they's poison. 

You'll have to do it to all of them."

Wesley's teeth were set, as he watched the boy's face. 

He poured the drug, strong enough to do effective work,

on a dozen places over that little body and bandaged all

he could.  Billy's lips quivered at times, and his chin

jumped, but he did not shed a tear or utter a sound other

than to take a deep interest in the boiling.  As Wesley

put the small shirt on the boy, and fastened the trousers,

he was ready to reset the hitching post and mend the fence

without a word.

"Now am I clean?" asked Billy.

"Yes, you are clean outside," said Wesley.  "There is

some dirty blood in your body, and some bad words in

your mouth, that we have to get out, but that takes time. 

If we put right things to eat into your stomach

that will do away with the sores, and if you know that

I don't like bad words you won't say them any oftener

than you can help, will you Billy?"

Billy leaned against Wesley in apparent indifference. 

"I want to see me!" he demanded.

Wesley led the boy into the house, and lifted him to a mirror.

"My, I'm purty good-looking, ain't I?" bragged Billy. 

Then as Wesley stooped to set him on the floor Billy's

lips passed close to the big man's ear and hastily

whispered a vehement "No!" as he ran for the door.

"How long until supper, Margaret?" asked Wesley

as he followed.

"You are going to keep him for supper?" she asked

"Sure!" said Wesley.  "That's what I brought him for. 

It's likely he never had a good square meal of decent

food in his life.  He's starved to the bone."

Margaret arose deliberately, removed the white cloth

from the supper table and substituted an old red one

she used to wrap the bread.  She put away the pretty

dishes they commonly used and set the table with old

plates for pies and kitchen utensils.  But she fried the

chicken, and was generous with milk and honey, snowy

bread, gravy, potatoes, and fruit.

Wesley repainted the scratched wheel.  He mended the

fence, with Billy holding the nails and handing the pickets. 

Then he filled the old hole, digged a new one and set the

hitching post.

Billy hopped on one foot at his task of holding the post

steady as the earth was packed around it.  There was

not the shadow of a trouble on his little freckled face.

Sinton threw in stones and pounded the earth solid around

the post.  The sound of a gulping sob attracted him to Billy. 

The tears were rolling down his cheeks.  "If I'd a knowed

you'd have to get down in a hole, and work so hard I

wouldn't 'a' hit the horses," he said.

"Never you mind, Billy," said Wesley.  "You will

know next time, so you can think over it, and make up

your mind whether you really want to before you strike."

Wesley went to the barn to put away the tools.  He

thought Billy was at his heels, but the boy lagged on

the way.  A big snowy turkey gobbler resented the small

intruder in his especial preserves, and with spread tail

and dragging wings came toward him threateningly.  If that

turkey gobbler had known the sort of things with which

Billy was accustomed to holding his own, he never would

have issued the challenge.  Billy accepted instantly. 

He danced around with stiff arms at his sides and imitated

the gobbler.  Then came his opportunity, and he jumped

on the big turkey's back.  Wesley heard Margaret's scream

in time to see the flying leap and admire its dexterity. 

The turkey tucked its tail and scampered.  Billy slid from

its back and as he fell he clutched wildly, caught the

folded tail, and instinctively clung to it.  The turkey

gave one scream and relaxed its muscles.  Then it fled

in disfigured defeat to the haystack.  Billy scrambled

to his feet holding the tail, while his eyes were bulging.

"Why, the blasted old thing came off!" he said to

Wesley, holding out the tail in amazed wonder.

The man, caught suddenly, forgot everything and roared. 

Seeing which, Billy thought a turkey tail of no

account and flung that one high above him shouting in

wild childish laughter, when the feathers scattered and fell.

Margaret, watching, began to cry.  Wesley had gone mad. 

For the first time in her married life she wanted

to tell her mother.  When Wesley had waited until he

was so hungry he could wait no longer he invaded the

kitchen to find a cooked supper baking on the back of the

stove, while Margaret with red eyes nursed a pair of

demoralized white kittens.

"Is supper ready?" he asked.

"It has been for an hour," answered Margaret.

"Why didn't you call us?"

That "us" had too much comradeship in it.  It irritated Margaret.

"I supposed it would take you even longer than this to

fix things decent again.  As for my turkey, and my poor

little kittens, they don't matter."

"I am mighty sorry about them, Margaret, you know that. 

Billy is very bright, and he will soon learn----"

"Soon learn!" cried Margaret.  "Wesley Sinton, you

don't mean to say that you think of keeping that creature

here for some time?"

"No, I think of keeping a well-behaved little boy."

Margaret set the supper on the table.  Seeing the old

red cloth Wesley stared in amazement.  Then he understood. 

Billy capered around in delight.

"Ain't that pretty?" he exulted.  "I wish Jimmy and

Belle could see.  We, why we ist eat out of our hands or

off a old dry goods box, and when we fix up a lot, we

have newspaper.  We ain't ever had a nice red cloth like this."

Wesley looked straight at Margaret, so intently that she

turned away, her face flushing.  He stacked the dictionary

and the geography of the world on a chair, and lifted Billy

beside him.  He heaped a plate generously, cut the food,

put a fork into Billy's little fist, and made him eat slowly

and properly.  Billy did his best.  Occasionally greed

overcame him, and he used his left hand to pop a bite into

his mouth with his fingers.  These lapses Wesley patiently

overlooked, and went on with his general instructions. 

Luckily Billy did not spill anything on his clothing or

the cloth.  After supper Wesley took him to the barn while

he finished the night work.  Then he went and sat beside

Margaret on the front porch.  Billy appropriated the

hammock, and swung by pulling a rope tied around a tree. 

The very energy with which he went at the work of

swinging himself appealed to Wesley.

"Mercy, but he's an active little body," he said. 

"There isn't a lazy bone in him.  See how he works

to pay for his fun."

"There goes his foot through it!" cried Margaret. 

"Wesley, he shall not ruin my hammock."

"Of course he shan't!" said Wesley.  "Wait, Billy, let

me show you."

Thereupon he explained to Billy that ladies wearing

beautiful white dresses sat in hammocks, so little boys

must not put their dusty feet in them.  Billy immediately

sat, and allowed his feet to swing.

"Margaret," said Wesley after a long silence on the

porch, "isn't it true that if Billy had been a half-starved

sore cat, dog, or animal of any sort, that you would have

pitied, and helped care for it, and been glad to see me get

any pleasure out of it I could?"

"Yes," said Margaret coldly.

"But because I brought a child with an immortal soul,

there is no welcome."

"That isn't a child, it's an animal."

"You just said you would have welcomed an animal."

"Not a wild one.  I meant a tame beast."

"Billy is not a beast!" said Wesley hotly.  "He is a

very dear little boy.  Margaret, you've always done the

church-going and Bible reading for this family.  How do

you reconcile that `Suffer little children to come unto Me'

with the way you are treating Billy?"

Margaret arose.  "I haven't treated that child.  I have

only let him alone.  I can barely hold myself.  He needs

the hide tanned about off him!"

"If you'd cared to look at his body, you'd know that you

couldn't find a place to strike without cutting into a raw

spot," said Wesley.  "Besides, Billy has not done a

thing for which a child should be punished.  He is only

full of life, no training, and with a boy's love of mischief. 

He did abuse your kittens, but an hour before I saw him

risk his life to save one from being run over.  He minds

what you tell him, and doesn't do anything he is told not to. 

He thinks of his brother and sister right away when

anything pleases him.  He took that stinging medicine

with the grit of a bulldog.  He is just a bully little chap,

and I love him."

"Oh good heavens!" cried Margaret, going into the

house as she spoke.

Sinton sat still.  At last Billy tired of the swing, came

to him and leaned his slight body against the big knee.

"Am I going to sleep here?" he asked.

"Sure you are!" said Sinton.

Billy swung his feet as he laid across Wesley's knee.

"Come on," said Wesley, "I must clean you up for bed."

"You have to be just awful clean here," announced Billy. 

"I like to be clean, you feel so good, after the hurt is over."

Sinton registered that remark, and worked with especial

tenderness as he redressed the ailing places and

washed the dust from Billy's feet and hands.

"Where can he sleep?" he asked Margaret.

"I'm sure I don't know," she answered.

"Oh, I can sleep ist any place," said Billy.  "On the

floor or anywhere.  Home, I sleep on pa's coat on a store-

box, and Jimmy and Belle they sleep on the storebox, too. 

"I sleep between them, so's I don't roll off and crack

my head.  Ain't you got a storebox and a old coat?"

Wesley arose and opened a folding lounge.  Then he

brought an armload of clean horse blankets from a closet.

"These don't look like the nice white bed a little boy

should have, Billy," he said, "but we'll make them do. 

This will beat a storebox all hollow."

Billy took a long leap for the lounge.  When he found

it bounced, he proceeded to bounce, until he was tired. 

By that time the blankets had to be refolded.  Wesley had

Billy take one end and help, while both of them seemed to

enjoy the job.  Then Billy lay down and curled up in his

clothes like a small dog.  But sleep would not come.

Finally he sat up.  He stared around restlessly.  Then he

arose, went to Wesley, and leaned against his knee.  He picked

up the boy and folded his arms around him.  Billy sighed

in rapturous content.

"That bed feels so lost like," he said.  "Jimmy always

jabbed me on one side, and Belle on the other, and so I

knew I was there.  Do you know where they are?"

"They are with kind people who gave them a fine supper,

a clean bed, and will always take good care of them."

"I wisht I was--"  Billy hesitated and looked earnestly

at Wesley.  "I mean I wish they was here."

"You are about all I can manage, Billy," said Wesley.

Billy sat up.  "Can't she manage anything?" he asked,

waving toward Margaret.

"Indeed, yes," said Wesley.  "She has managed me

for twenty years."

"My, but she made you nice!" said Billy.  "I just love you. 

I wisht she'd take Jimmy and Belle and make them nice as you."

"She isn't strong enough to do that, Billy.  They will

grow into a good boy and girl where they are."

Billy slid from Wesley's arms and walked toward

Margaret until he reached the middle of the room.  Then he

stopped, and at last sat on the floor.  Finally he lay

down and closed his eyes.  "This feels more like my bed;

if only Jimmy and Belle was here to crowd up a little, so it

wasn't so alone like."

"Won't I do, Billy?" asked Wesley in a husky voice.

Billy moved restlessly.  "Seems like--seems like

toward night as if a body got kind o' lonesome for a

woman person--like her."

Billy indicated Margaret and then closed his eyes so

tight his small face wrinkled.

Soon he was up again.  "Wisht I had Snap," he said. 

"Oh, I ist wisht I had Snap!"

"I thought you laid a board on Snap and jumped on

it," said Wesley.

"We did!" cried Billy--"oh, you ought to heard him

squeal!" Billy laughed loudly, then his face clouded.

"But I want Snap to lay beside me so bad now--that if he

was here I'd give him a piece of my chicken, 'for, I ate any. 

Do you like dogs?"

"Yes, I do," said Wesley.

Billy was up instantly.  "Would you like Snap?"

"I am sure I would," said Wesley.

"Would she?" Billy indicated Margaret.  And then

he answered his own question.  "But of course, she

wouldn't, cos she likes cats, and dogs chases cats. 

Oh, dear, I thought for a minute maybe Snap could

come here."  Billy lay down and closed his eyes resolutely.

Suddenly they flew open.  "Does it hurt to be dead?"

he demanded.

"Nothing hurts you after you are dead, Billy," said Wesley.

"Yes, but I mean does it hurt getting to be dead?"

"Sometimes it does.  It did not hurt your father, Billy. 

It came softly while he was asleep."

"It ist came softly?"

"Yes."

"I kind o' wisht he wasn't dead!" said Billy.  "'Course I

like to stay with you, and the fried chicken, and the nice

soft bed, and--and everything, and I like to be clean, but

he took us to the show, and he got us gum, and he never

hurt us when he wasn't drunk."

Billy drew a deep breath, and tightly closed his eyes. 

But very soon they opened.  Then he sat up.  He looked

at Wesley pitifully, and then he glanced at Margaret. 

"You don't like boys, do you?" he questioned.

"I like good boys," said Margaret.

Billy was at her knee instantly.  "Well say, I'm a good

boy!" he announced joyously.

"I do not think boys who hurt helpless kittens and pull

out turkeys' tails are good boys."

"Yes, but I didn't hurt the kittens," explained Billy. 

"They got mad 'bout ist a little fun and scratched each other. 

I didn't s'pose they'd act like that.  And I didn't pull

the turkey's tail.  I ist held on to the first thing I

grabbed, and the turkey pulled.  Honest, it was the

turkey pulled."  He turned to Wesley.  "You tell her! 

Didn't the turkey pull?  I didn't know its tail was loose,

did I?"

"I don't think you did, Billy," said Wesley.

Billy stared into Margaret's cold face.  "Sometimes at night,

Belle sits on the floor, and I lay my head in her lap. 

I could pull up a chair and lay my head in your lap. 

Like this, I mean."  Billy pulled up a chair, climbed

on it and laid his head on Margaret's lap.  Then he shut

his eyes again.  Margaret could have looked little more

repulsed if he had been a snake.  Billy was soon up.

"My, but your lap is hard," he said.  "And you are

a good deal fatter 'an Belle, too!"  He slid from the

chair and came back to the middle of the room.

"Oh but I wisht he wasn't dead!" he cried.  The flood

broke and Billy screamed in desperation.

Out of the night a soft, warm young figure flashed

through the door and with a swoop caught him in her arms. 

She dropped into a chair, nestled him closely, drooped

her fragrant brown head over his little bullet-eyed

red one, and rocked softly while she crooned over him--

     "Billy, boy, where have you been?

      Oh, I have been to seek a wife,

      She's the joy of my life,

      But then she's a young thing and she can't leave her mammy!"

Billy clung to her frantically.  Elnora wiped his eyes,

kissed his face, swayed and sang.

"Why aren't you asleep?" she asked at last.

"I don't know," said Billy.  "I tried.  I tried awful

hard cos I thought he wanted me to, but it ist wouldn't come. 

Please tell her I tried."  He appealed to Margaret.

"He did try to go to sleep," admitted Margaret.

"Maybe he can't sleep in his clothes," suggested Elnora. 

"Haven't you an old dressing sacque?  I could roll

the sleeves."

Margaret got an old sacque, and Elnora put it on Billy. 

Then she brought a basin of water and bathed his face

and head.  She gathered him up and began to rock again.

"Have you got a pa?" asked Billy.

"No," said Elnora.

"Is he dead like mine?"

"Yes."

"Did it hurt him to die?"

"I don't know."

Billy was wide awake again.  "It didn't hurt my pa,"

he boasted; "he ist died while he was asleep.  He didn't

even know it was coming."

"I am glad of that," said Elnora, pressing the small

head against her breast again.

Billy escaped her hand and sat up.  "I guess I won't go

to sleep," he said.  "It might `come softly' and get me."

"It won't get you, Billy," said Elnora, rocking and

singing between sentences.  "It doesn't get little boys. 

It just takes big people who are sick."

"Was my pa sick?"

"Yes," said Elnora.  "He had a dreadful sickness

inside him that burned, and made him drink things. 

That was why he would forget his little boys and girl. 

If he had been well, he would have gotten you good things

to eat, clean clothes, and had the most fun with you."

Billy leaned against her and closed his eyes, and Elnora

rocked hopefully.

"If I was dead would you cry?" he was up again.

"Yes, I would," said Elnora, gripping him closer until

Billy almost squealed with the embrace.

"Do you love me tight as that?" he questioned blissfully.

"Yes, bushels and bushels," said Elnora.  "Better than

any little boy in the whole world."

Billy looked at Margaret.  "She don't!" he said.

"She'd be glad if it would get me `softly,' right now. 

She don't want me here 't all."

Elnora smothered his face against her breast and rocked. 

"You love me, don't you?"

"I will, if you will go to sleep."

"Every single day you will give me your dinner for

the bologna, won't you," said Billy.

"Yes, I will," replied Elnora.  "But you will have as

good lunch as I do after this.  You will have milk, eggs,

chicken, all kinds of good things, little pies, and cakes, maybe."

Billy shook his head.  "I am going back home soon as

it is light," he said, "she don't want me.  She thinks

I'm a bad boy.  She's going to whip me--if he lets her. 

She said so.  I heard her.  Oh, I wish he hadn't died! 

I want to go home." Billy shrieked again.

Mrs. Comstock had started to walk slowly to meet Elnora. 

The girl had been so late that her mother reached the

Sinton gate and followed the path until the picture inside

became visible.  Elnora had told her about Wesley

taking Billy home.  Mrs. Comstock had some curiosity

to see how Margaret bore the unexpected addition to

her family.  Billy's voice, raised with excitement, was

plainly audible.  She could see Elnora holding him, and

hear his excited wail.  Wesley's face was drawn and haggard,

and Margaret's set and defiant.  A very imp of perversity

entered the breast of Mrs. Comstock.

"Hoity, toity!" she said as she suddenly appeared

in the door.  "Blest if I ever heard a man making sounds

like that before!"

Billy ceased suddenly.  Mrs. Comstock was tall, angular,

and her hair was prematurely white.  She was only

thirty-six, although she appeared fifty.  But there

was an expression on her usually cold face that was

attractive just then, and Billy was in search of attractions.

"Have I stayed too late, mother?" asked Elnora anxiously. 

"I truly intended to come straight back, but I thought

I could rock Billy to sleep first.  Everything is strange,

and he's so nervous."

"Is that your ma?" demanded Billy.

"Yes."

"Does she love you?"

"Of course!"

"My mother didn't love me," said Billy.  "She went

away and left me, and never came back.  She don't care

what happens to me.  You wouldn't go away and leave

your little girl, would you?" questioned Billy.

"No," said Katharine Comstock, "and I wouldn't

leave a little boy, either."

Billy began sliding from Elnora's knees.

"Do you like boys?" he questioned.

"If there is anything I love it is a boy," said Mrs.

Comstock assuringly.  Billy was on the floor.

"Do you like dogs?"

"Yes.  Almost as well as boys.  I am going to buy a

dog as soon as I can find a good one."

Billy swept toward her with a whoop.

"Do you want a boy?" he shouted.

Katharine Comstock stretched out her arms, and

gathered him in.

"Of course, I want a boy!" she rejoiced.

"Maybe you'd like to have me?" offered Billy.

"Sure I would," triumphed Mrs. Comstock.  "Any one

would like to have you.  You are just a real boy, Billy."

"Will you take Snap?"

"I'd like to have Snap almost as well as you."

"Mother!" breathed Elnora imploringly.  "Don't! Oh, don't! 

He thinks you mean it!"

"And so I do mean it," said Mrs. Comstock.  "I'll take

him in a jiffy.  I throw away enough to feed a little

tyke like him every day.  His chatter would be great

company while you are gone.  Blood soon can be purified

with right food and baths, and as for Snap, I meant to

buy a bulldog, but possibly Snap will serve just as well. 

All I ask of a dog is to bark at the right time.  I'll do

the rest.  Would you like to come and be my boy, Billy?"

Billy leaned against Mrs. Comstock, reached his arms

around her neck and gripped her with all his puny might. 

"You can whip me all you want to," he said.  "I won't

make a sound."

Mrs. Comstock held him closely and her hard face was

softening; of that there could be no doubt.

"Now, why would any one whip a nice little boy like

you?" she asked wonderingly.

"She"--Billy from his refuge waved toward Margaret

--"she was going to whip me 'cause her cats fought,

when I tied their tails together and hung them over the

line to dry.  How did I know her old cats would fight?"

Mrs. Comstock began to laugh suddenly, and try as

she would she could not stop so soon as she desired. 

Billy studied her.

"Have you got turkeys?" he demanded.

"Yes, flocks of them," said Mrs. Comstock, vainly

struggling to suppress her mirth, and settle her face in

its accustomed lines.

"Are their tails fast?" demanded Billy.

"Why, I think so," marvelled Mrs. Comstock.

"Hers ain't!" said Billy with the wave toward Margaret

that was becoming familiar.  "Her turkey pulled,

and its tail comed right off.  She's going to whip me if he

lets her.  I didn't know the turkey would pull.  I didn't

know its tail would come off.  I won't ever touch one

again, will I?"

"Of course, you won't," said Mrs. Comstock.  "And what's

more, I don't care if you do!  I'd rather have a fine

little man like you than all the turkeys in the country. 

Let them lose their old tails if they want to, and let

the cats fight.  Cats and turkeys don't compare with boys,

who are going to be fine big men some of these days."

Then Billy and Mrs. Comstock hugged each other

rapturously, while their audience stared in silent amazement.

"You like boys!" exulted Billy, and his head dropped

against Mrs. Comstock in unspeakable content.

"Yes, and if I don't have to carry you the whole way

home, we must start right now," said Mrs. Comstock. 

"You are going to be asleep before you know it."

Billy opened his eyes and braced himself.  "I can

walk," he said proudly.

"All right, we must start.  Come, Elnora!  Good-night, folks!" 

Mrs. Comstock set Billy on the floor, and arose gripping

his hand.  "You take the other side, Elnora, and we will

help him as much as we can," she said.

Elnora stared piteously at Margaret, then at Wesley,

and arose in white-faced bewilderment.

"Billy, are you going to leave without even saying good-

bye to me?" asked Wesley, with a gulp.

Billy held tight to Mrs. Comstock and Elnora.

"Good-bye!" he said casually.  "I'll come and see you

some time."

Wesley Sinton gave a smothered sob, and strode from

the room.

Mrs. Comstock started toward the door, dragging at

Billy while Elnora pulled back, but Mrs. Sinton was before

them, her eyes flashing.

"Kate Comstock, you think you are mighty smart,

don't you?" she cried.

"I ain't in the lunatic asylum, where you belong,

anyway,"said Mrs. Comstock.  "I am smart enough to tell

a dandy boy when I see him, and I'm good and glad to

get him.  I'll love to have him!"

"Well, you won't have him!" exclaimed Margaret Sinton. 

"That boy is Wesley's!  He found him, and brought him here. 

You can't come in and take him like that!  Let go of him!"

"Not much, I won't!" cried Mrs. Comstock.  "Leave the

poor sick little soul here for you to beat, because he

didn't know just how to handle things!  Of course, he'll

make mistakes.  He must have a lot of teaching, but not

the kind he'll get from you!  Clear out of my way!"

"You let go of our boy," ordered Margaret.

"Why?  Do you want to whip him, before he can go

to sleep?" jeered Mrs. Comstock.

"No, I don't!" said Margaret.  "He's Wesley's, and

nobody shall touch him.  Wesley!"

Wesley Sinton appeared behind Margaret in the doorway,

and she turned to him.  "Make Kate Comstock let go of

our boy!" she demanded.

"Billy, she wants you now," said Wesley Sinton.  "She won't

whip you, and she won't let any one else.  You can have

stacks of good things to eat, ride in the carriage, and have

a great time.  Won't you stay with us?"

Billy drew away from Mrs. Comstock and Elnora.

He faced Margaret, his eyes shrewd with unchildish wisdom. 

Necessity had taught him to strike the hot iron, to

drive the hard bargain.

"Can I have Snap to live here always?" he demanded.

"Yes, you can have all the dogs you want," said Margaret Sinton.

"Can I sleep close enough so's I can touch you?"

"Yes, you can move your lounge up so that you can

hold my hand," said Margaret.

"Do you love me now?" questioned Billy.

"I'll try to love you, if you are a good boy," said Margaret.

"Then I guess I'll stay," said Billy, walking over to her.

Out in the night Elnora and her mother went down the

road in the moonlight; every few rods Mrs. Comstock

laughed aloud.

"Mother, I don't understand you," sobbed Elnora.

"Well, maybe when you have gone to high school longer

you will," said Mrs. Comstock.  "Anyway, you saw me

bring Mag Sinton to her senses, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did," answered Elnora, "but I thought you

were in earnest.  So did Billy, and Uncle Wesley, and

Aunt Margaret."

"Well, wasn't I?" inquired Mrs. Comstock.

"But you just said you brought Aunt Margaret to!"

"Well, didn't I?"

"I don't understand you."

"That's the reason I am recommending more schooling!"

Elnora took her candle and went to bed.  Mrs. Comstock

was feeling too good to sleep.  Twice of late she

really had enjoyed herself for the first in sixteen years,

and greediness for more of the same feeling crept into her

blood like intoxication.  As she sat brooding alone she

knew the truth.  She would have loved to have taken Billy. 

She would not have minded his mischief, his chatter, or his dog. 

He would have meant a distraction from herself that she

greatly needed; she was even sincere about the dog. 

She had intended to tell Wesley to buy her one at the very

first opportunity.  Her last thought was of Billy. 

She chuckled softly, for she was not saintly, and now she

knew how she could even a long score with Margaret and Wesley

in a manner that would fill her soul with grim satisfaction.

CHAPTER VIII

WHEREIN THE LIMBERLOST TEMPTS ELNORA, AND BILLY

BURIES HIS FATHER

Immediately after dinner on Sunday Wesley Sinton

stopped at the Comstock gate to ask if Elnora wanted

to go to town with them.  Billy sat beside him and he

did not appear as if he were on his way to a funeral. 

Elnora said she had to study and could not go, but she

suggested that her mother take her place.  Mrs. Comstock

put on her hat and went at once, which surprised Elnora. 

She did not know that her mother was anxious for an

opportunity to speak with Sinton alone.  Elnora knew

why she was repeatedly cautioned not to leave their land,

if she went specimen hunting.

She studied two hours and was several lessons ahead of

her classes.  There was no use to go further.  She would

take a walk and see if she could gather any caterpillars or

find any freshly spun cocoons.  She searched the bushes

and low trees behind the garden and all around the edge of

the woods on their land, and having little success, at

last came to the road.  Almost the first thorn bush she

examined yielded a Polyphemus cocoon.  Elnora lifted

her head with the instinct of a hunter on the chase, and

began work.  She reached the swamp before she knew it,

carrying five fine cocoons of different species as her reward.

She pushed back her hair and gazed around longingly.  A few

rods inside she thought she saw cocoons on a bush, to

which she went, and found several.  Sense of caution was

rapidly vanishing; she was in a fair way to forget everything

and plunge into the swamp when she thought she heard

footsteps coming down the trail.  She went back, and came

out almost facing Pete Corson.

That ended her difficulty.  She had known him since childhood. 

When she sat on the front bench of the Brushwood schoolhouse,

Pete had been one of the big boys at the back of the room. 

He had been rough and wild, but she never had been afraid of

him, and often he had given her pretty things from the swamp.

"What luck!" she cried.  "I promised mother I would

not go inside the swamp alone, and will you look at the

cocoons I've found!  There are more just screaming for

me to come get them, because the leaves will fall with the

first frost, and then the jays and crows will begin to tear

them open.  I haven't much time, since I'm going to school. 

You will go with me, Pete!  Please say yes!  Just a little way!"

"What are those things?" asked the man, his keen

black eyes staring at her.

"They are the cases these big caterpillars spin for

winter, and in the spring they come out great night moths,

and I can sell them.  Oh, Pete, I can sell them for enough

to take me through high school and dress me so like the

others that I don't look different, and if I have very good

luck I can save some for college.  Pete, please go with me?"

"Why don't you go like you always have?"

"Well, the truth is, I had a little scare," said Elnora. 

"I never did mean to go alone; sometimes I sort of wandered

inside farther than I intended, chasing things.  You know

Duncan gave me Freckles's books, and I have been gathering

moths like he did.  Lately I found I could sell them. 

If I can make a complete collection, I can get three

hundred dollars for it.  Three such collections would

take me almost through college, and I've four years in the

high school yet.  That's a long time.  I might collect them."

"Can every kind there is be found here?"

"No, not all of them, but when I get more than I need

of one kind, I can trade them with collectors farther north

and west, so I can complete sets.  It's the only way I see

to earn the money.  Look what I have already.  Big gray

Cecropias come from this kind; brown Polyphemus from that,

and green Lunas from these.  You aren't working on Sunday. 

Go with me only an hour, Pete!"

The man looked at her narrowly.  She was young,

wholesome, and beautiful.  She was innocent, intensely in

earnest, and she needed the money, he knew that.

"You didn't tell me what scared you," he said.

"Oh, I thought I did!  Why you know I had Freckles's

box packed full of moths and specimens, and one evening

I sold some to the Bird Woman.  Next morning I found

a note telling me it wasn't safe to go inside the swamp. 

That sort of scared me.  I think I'll go alone, rather than

miss the chance, but I'd be so happy if you would take

care of me.  Then I could go anywhere I chose, because if

I mired you could pull me out.  You will take care of me, Pete?"

"Yes, I'll take care of you," promised Pete Corson.

"Goody!" said Elnora.  "Let's start quick!  And Pete,

you look at these closely, and when you are hunting or

going along the road, if one dangles under your nose, you

cut off the little twig and save it for me, will you?"

"Yes, I'll save you all I see," promised Pete.  He pushed

back his hat and followed Elnora.  She plunged fearlessly

among bushes, over underbrush, and across dead logs. 

One minute she was crying wildly, that here was a

big one, the next she was reaching for a limb above her

head or on her knees overturning dead leaves under a

hickory or oak tree, or working aside black muck with her

bare hands as she searched for buried pupae cases.  For the

first hour Pete bent back bushes and followed, carrying

what Elnora discovered.  Then he found one.

"Is this the kind of thing you are looking for?" he asked

bashfully, as he presented a wild cherry twig.

"Oh Pete, that's a Promethea!  I didn't even hope to

find one."

"What's the bird like?" asked Pete.

"Almost black wings," said Elnora, "with clay-coloured

edges, and the most wonderful wine-coloured flush over the

under side if it's a male, and stronger wine above and below

if it's a female.  Oh, aren't I happy!"

"How would it do to make what you have into a bunch

that we could leave here, and come back for them?"

"That would be all right."

Relieved of his load Pete began work.  First, he narrowly

examined the cocoons Elnora had found.  He questioned

her as to what other kinds would be like.  He began to

use the eyes of a trained woodman and hunter in her behalf. 

He saw several so easily, and moved through the forest

so softly, that Elnora forgot the moths in watching him. 

Presently she was carrying the specimens, and he was

making the trips of investigation to see which was a

cocoon and which a curled leaf, or he was on his knees

digging around stumps.  As he worked he kept asking questions. 

What kind of logs were best to look beside, what trees were

pupae cases most likely to be under; on what bushes did

caterpillars spin most frequently?  Time passed, as it

always does when one's occupation is absorbing.

When the Sintons took Mrs. Comstock home, they stopped

to see Elnora.  She was not there.  Mrs. Comstock called

at the edge of her woods and received no reply. 

Then Wesley turned and drove back to the Limberlost. 

He left Margaret and Mrs. Comstock holding the team and

entertaining Billy, while he entered the swamp.

Elnora and Pete had made a wide trail behind them. 

Before Sinton had thought of calling, he heard voices

and approached with some caution.  Soon he saw Elnora,

her flushed face beaming as she bent with an armload of

twigs and branches and talked to a kneeling man.

"Now go cautiously!" she was saying.  "I am just sure

we will find an Imperialis here.  It's their very kind of

a place.  There!  What did I tell you! Isn't that splendid? 

Oh, I am so glad you came with me!"

Wesley stood staring in speechless astonishment, for

the man had arisen, brushed the dirt from his hands, and

held out to Elnora a small shining dark pupa case. 

As his face came into view Sinton almost cried out, for he

was the one man of all others Wesley knew with whom he

most feared for Elnora's safety.  She had him on his

knees digging pupae cases for her from the swamp.

"Elnora!" called Sinton.  "Elnora!"

"Oh, Uncle Wesley!" cried the girl.  "See what luck

we've had!  I know we have a dozen and a half cocoons

and we have three pupae cases.  It's much harder to get

the cases because you have to dig for them, and you can't

see where to look.  But Pete is fine at it!  He's found

three, and he says he will keep watch beside the roads,

and through the woods while he hunts.  Isn't that splendid

of him?  Uncle Wesley, there is a college over there

on the western edge of the swamp.  Look closely, and

you can see the great dome up among the clouds."

"I should say you have had luck," said Wesley, striving

to make his voice natural.  "But I thought you were not

coming to the swamp?"

"Well, I wasn't," said Elnora, "but I couldn't find

many anywhere else, honest, I couldn't, and just as soon

as I came to the edge I began to see them here.  I kept

my promise.  I didn't come in alone.  Pete came with me. 

He's so strong, he isn't afraid of anything, and

he's perfectly splendid to locate cocoons!  He's found

half of these.  Come on, Pete, it's getting dark now, and

we must go."

They started toward the trail, Pete carrying the cocoons. 

He left them at the case, while Elnora and Wesley went

on to the carriage together.

"Elnora Comstock, what does this mean?" demanded

her mother.

"It's all right, one of the neighbours was with her, and

she got several dollars' worth of stuff," interposed Wesley.

"You oughter seen my pa," shouted Billy.  "He was ist

all whited out, and he laid as still as anything. 

They put him away deep in the ground."

"Billy!" breathed Margaret in a prolonged groan.

"Jimmy and Belle are going to be together in a nice place. 

They are coming to see me, and Snap is right down here

by the wheel.  Here, Snap!  My, but he'll be tickled

to get something to eat!  He's 'most twisted as me. 

They get new clothes, and all they want to eat, too,

but they'll miss me.  They couldn't have got along

without me.  I took care of them.  I had a lot of things

give to me 'cause I was the littlest, and I always divided

with them.  But they won't need me now."

When she left the carriage Mrs. Comstock gravely

shook hands with Billy.  "Remember," she said to him,

"I love boys, and I love dogs.  Whenever you don't

have a good time up there, take your dog and come right

down and be my little boy.  We will just have loads of fun. 

You should hear the whistles I can make.  If you

aren't treated right you come straight to me."

Billy wagged his head sagely.  "You ist bet I will!"

he said.

"Mother, how could you?" asked Elnora as they walked

up the path.

"How could I, missy?  You better ask how couldn't I? 

I just couldn't!  Not for enough to pay, my road tax! 

Not for enough to pay the road tax, and the dredge tax, too!"

"Aunt Margaret always has been lovely to me, and I

don't think it's fair to worry her."

"I choose to be lovely to Billy, and let her sweat out

her own worries just as she has me, these sixteen years. 

There is nothing in all this world so good for people as

taking a dose of their own medicine.  The difference is

that I am honest.  I just say in plain English, `if they

don't treat you right, come to me.'  They have only

said it in actions and inferences.  I want to teach Mag

Sinton how her own doses taste, but she begins to sputter

before I fairly get the spoon to her lips.  Just you wait!"

"When I think what I owe her----" began Elnora.

"Well, thank goodness, I don't owe her anything, and

so I'm perfectly free to do what I choose.  Come on,

and help me get supper.  I'm hungry as Billy!"

Margaret Sinton rocked slowly back and forth in her chair. 

On her breast lay Billy's red head, one hand clutched her

dress front with spasmodic grip, even after he was unconscious.

"You mustn't begin that, Margaret," said Sinton. 

"He's too heavy.  And it's bad for him.  He's better

off to lie down and go to sleep alone."

"He's very light, Wesley.  He jumps and quivers so. 

He has to be stronger than he is now, before he will

sleep soundly."

CHAPTER IX

WHEREIN ELNORA DISCOVERS A VIOLIN,

AND BILLY DISCIPLINES MARGARET

Elnora missed the little figure at the bridge the

following morning.  She slowly walked up the

street and turned in at the wide entrance to the

school grounds.  She scarcely could comprehend that

only a week ago she had gone there friendless, alone, and

so sick at heart that she was physically ill.  To-day she

had decent clothing, books, friends, and her mind was at

ease to work on her studies.

As she approached home that night the girl paused

in amazement.  Her mother had company, and she was laughing. 

Elnora entered the kitchen softly and peeped into the

sitting-room.  Mrs. Comstock sat in her chair holding

a book and every few seconds a soft chuckle broke into

a real laugh.  Mark Twain was doing his work; while

Mrs. Comstock was not lacking in a sense of humour. 

Elnora entered the room before her mother saw her. 

Mrs. Comstock looked up with flushed face.

"Where did you get this?" she demanded.

"I bought it," said Elnora.

"Bought it!  With all the taxes due!"

"I paid for it out of my Indian money, mother," said Elnora. 

"I couldn't bear to spend so much on myself and nothing

at all on you.  I was afraid to buy the dress I should

have liked to, and I thought the book would be company,

while I was gone.  I haven't read it, but I do hope it's good."

"Good!  It's the biggest piece of foolishness I have

read in all my life.  I've laughed all day, ever since I

found it.  I had a notion to go out and read some of it

to the cows and see if they wouldn't laugh."

"If it made you laugh, it's a wise book," said Elnora.

"Wise!" cried Mrs. Comstock.  "You can stake your life

it's a wise book.  It takes the smartest man there is

to do this kind of fooling," and she began laughing again.

Elnora, highly satisfied with her purchase, went to her

room and put on her working clothes.  Thereafter she

made a point of bringing a book that she thought would

interest her mother, from the library every week, and

leaving it on the sitting-room table.  Each night she

carried home at least two school books and studied until

she had mastered the points of her lessons.  She did

her share of the work faithfully, and every available

minute she was in the fields searching for cocoons, for

the moths promised to become her largest source of income.

She gathered baskets of nests, flowers, mosses, insects,

and all sorts of natural history specimens and sold them

to the grade teachers.  At first she tried to tell these

instructors what to teach their pupils about the specimens;

but recognizing how much more she knew than they, one after

another begged her to study at home, and use her spare hours

in school to exhibit and explain nature subjects to

their pupils.  Elnora loved the work, and she needed the

money, for every few days some matter of expense arose

that she had not expected.

From the first week she had been received and invited

with the crowd of girls in her class, and it was their

custom in passing through the business part of the city

to stop at the confectioners' and take turns in treating

to expensive candies, ice cream sodas, hot chocolate, or

whatever they fancied.  When first Elnora was asked she

accepted without understanding.  The second time she

went because she seldom had tasted these things, and

they were so delicious she could not resist.  After that

she went because she knew all about it, and had decided

to go.

She had spent half an hour on the log beside the trail

in deep thought and had arrived at her conclusions. 

She worked harder than usual for the next week, but she

seemed to thrive on work.  It was October and the red

leaves were falling when her first time came to treat.

As the crowd flocked down the broad walk that night

Elnora called, "Girls, it's my treat to-night!  Come on!"

She led the way through the city to the grocery they

patronized when they had a small spread, and entering

came out with a basket, which she carried to the bridge

on her home road.  There she arranged the girls in two

rows on the cement abutments and opening her basket

she gravely offered each girl an exquisite little basket of

bark, lined with red leaves, in one end of which nestled a

juicy big red apple and in the other a spicy doughnut not

an hour from Margaret Sinton's frying basket.

Another time she offered big balls of popped corn stuck

together with maple sugar, and liberally sprinkled with

beechnut kernels.  Again it was hickory-nut kernels

glazed with sugar, another time maple candy, and once

a basket of warm pumpkin pies.  She never made any

apology, or offered any excuse.  She simply gave what

she could afford, and the change was as welcome to those

city girls accustomed to sodas and French candy, as were

these same things to Elnora surfeited on popcorn and pie. 

In her room was a little slip containing a record of the

number of weeks in the school year, the times it would be

her turn to treat and the dates on which such occasions

would fall, with a number of suggestions beside each. 

Once the girls almost fought over a basket lined with

yellow leaves, and filled with fat, very ripe red haws. 

In late October there was a riot over one which was lined

with red leaves and contained big fragrant pawpaws

frost-bitten to a perfect degree.  Then hazel nuts were

ripe, and once they served.  One day Elnora at her wits'

end, explained to her mother that the girls had given her

things and she wanted to treat them.  Mrs. Comstock,

with characteristic stubbornness, had said she would leave

a basket at the grocery for her, but firmly declined to say

what would be in it.  All day Elnora struggled to keep

her mind on her books.  For hours she wavered in tense

uncertainty.  What would her mother do?  Should she

take the girls to the confectioner's that night or risk

the basket?  Mrs. Comstock could make delicious things to

eat, but would she?

As they left the building Elnora made a final rapid

mental calculation.  She could not see her way clear to

a decent treat for ten people for less than two dollars and

if the basket proved to be nice, then the money would

be wasted.  She decided to risk it.  As they went to the

bridge the girls were betting on what the treat would be,

and crowding near Elnora like spoiled small children. 

Elnora set down the basket.

"Girls," she said, "I don't know what this is myself, so

all of us are going to be surprised.  Here goes!"

She lifted the cover and perfumes from the land of spices

rolled up.  In one end of the basket lay ten enormous

sugar cakes the tops of which had been liberally dotted

with circles cut from stick candy.  The candy had melted

in baking and made small transparent wells of waxy sweetness

and in the centre of each cake was a fat turtle made from

a raisin with cloves for head and feet.  The remainder

of the basket was filled with big spiced pears that could

be held by their stems while they were eaten.  The girls

shrieked and attacked the cookies, and of all the treats

Elnora offered perhaps none was quite so long remembered

as that.

When Elnora took her basket, placed her books in it,

and started home, all the girls went with her as far as the

fence where she crossed the field to the swamp.  At parting

they kissed her good-bye.  Elnora was a happy girl as she

hurried home to thank her mother.  She was happy over her

books that night, and happy all the way to school the

following morning.

When the music swelled from the orchestra her heart

almost broke with throbbing joy.  For music always had

affected her strangely, and since she had been comfortable

enough in her surroundings to notice things, she had

listened to every note to find what it was that literally hurt

her heart, and at last she knew.  It was the talking of

the violins.  They were human voices, and they spoke a

language Elnora understood.  It seemed to her that she

must climb up on the stage, take the instruments from the

fingers of the players and make them speak what was in

her heart.

That night she said to her mother, "I am perfectly crazy

for a violin.  I am sure I could play one, sure as I live. 

Did any one----"  Elnora never completed that sentence.

"Hush!" thundered Mrs. Comstock.  "Be quiet! 

Never mention those things before me again--never as

long as you live!  I loathe them!  They are a snare of the

very devil himself!  They were made to lure men and

women from their homes and their honour.  If ever I see

you with one in your fingers I will smash it in pieces."

Naturally Elnora hushed, but she thought of nothing else

after she had finished her lessons.  At last there came

a day when for some reason the leader of the orchestra

left his violin on the grand piano.  That morning Elnora

made her first mistake in algebra.  At noon, as soon as the

building was empty, she slipped into the auditorium, found

the side door which led to the stage, and going through the

musicians' entrance she took the violin.  She carried it back

into the little side room where the orchestra assembled, closed

all the doors, opened the case and lifted out the instrument.

She laid it on her breast, dropped her chin on it and

drew the bow softly across the strings.  One after another

she tested the open notes.  Gradually her stroke ceased to

tremble and she drew the bow firmly.  Then her fingers

began to fall and softly, slowly she searched up and down

those strings for sounds she knew.  Standing in the middle

of the floor, she tried over and over.  It seemed scarcely a

minute before the hall was filled with the sound of hurrying

feet, and she was forced to put away the violin and go

to her classes.  The next day she prayed that the violin

would be left again, but her petition was not answered. 

That night when she returned from the school she made an

excuse to go down to see Billy.  He was engaged in hulling

walnuts by driving them through holes in a board.  His

hands were protected by a pair of Margaret's old gloves,

but he had speckled his face generously.  He appeared

well, and greeted Elnora hilariously.

"Me an' the squirrels are laying up our winter stores,"

he shouted.  "Cos the cold is coming, an' the snow an'

if we have any nuts we have to fix 'em now.  But I'm

ahead, cos Uncle Wesley made me this board, and I can

hull a big pile while the old squirrel does only ist one

with his teeth."

Elnora picked him up and kissed him.  "Billy, are you

happy?" she asked.

"Yes, and so's Snap," answered Billy.  "You ought to

see him make the dirt fly when he gets after a chipmunk. 

I bet you he could dig up pa, if anybody wanted him to."

"Billy!" gasped Margaret as she came out to them.

"Well, me and Snap don't want him up, and I bet you

Jimmy and Belle don't, either.  I ain't been twisty

inside once since I been here, and I don't want to go away,

and Snap don't, either.  He told me so."

"Billy!  That is not true.  Dogs can't talk,"

cautioned Margaret.

"Then what makes you open the door when he asks you to?"

demanded Billy.

"Scratching and whining isn't talking."

"Anyway, it's the best Snap can talk, and you get up

and do things he wants done.  Chipmunks can talk too. 

You ought to hear them damn things holler when Snap

gets them!"

"Billy!  When you want a cooky for supper and I don't

give it to you it is because you said a wrong word."

"Well, for----"   Billy clapped his hand over his mouth

and stained his face in swipes.  "Well, for--anything! 

Did I go an' forget again!  The cookies will get all

hard, won't they?  I bet you ten dollars I don't say that

any more."

He espied Wesley and ran to show him a walnut too big

to go through the holes, and Elnora and Margaret entered

the house.

They talked of many things for a time and then Elnora

said suddenly:  "Aunt Margaret, I like music."

"I've noticed that in you all your life," answered Margaret.

"If dogs can't talk, I can make a violin talk," announced

Elnora, and then in amazement watched the face of

Margaret Sinton grow pale.

"A violin!" she wavered.  "Where did you get a violin?"

"They fairly seemed to speak to me in the orchestra. 

One day the conductor left his in the auditorium, and I

took it, and Aunt Margaret, I can make it do the wind in

the swamp, the birds, and the animals.  I can make any

sound I ever heard on it.  If I had a chance to practise

a little, I could make it do the orchestra music, too. 

I don't know how I know, but I do."

"Did--did you ever mention it to your mother?"

faltered Margaret.

"Yes, and she seems prejudiced against them.  But oh,

Aunt Margaret, I never felt so about anything, not even

going to school.  I just feel as if I'd die if I didn't

have one.  I could keep it at school, and practise at noon

a whole hour.  Soon they'd ask me to play in the orchestra. 

I could keep it in the case and practise in the woods

in summer.  You'd let me play over here Sunday. 

Oh, Aunt Margaret, what does one cost?  Would it be wicked

for me to take of my money, and buy a very cheap one? 

I could play on the least expensive one made."

"Oh, no you couldn't!  A cheap machine makes cheap music. 

You got to have a fine fiddle to make it sing.  But there's

no sense in your buying one.  There isn't a decent reason

on earth why you shouldn't have your fa----"

"My father's!" cried Elnora.  She caught Margaret

Sinton by the arm.  "My father had a violin!  He played it. 

That's why I can!  Where is it!  Is it in our house?

Is it in mother's room?"

"Elnora!" panted Margaret.  "Your mother will kill me! 

She always hated it."

"Mother dearly loves music," said Elnora.

"Not when it took the man she loved away from her to

make it!"

"Where is my father's violin?"

"Elnora!"

"I've never seen a picture of my father.  I've never

heard his name mentioned.  I've never had a scrap that

belonged to him.  Was he my father, or am I a charity

child like Billy, and so she hates me?"

"She has good pictures of him.  Seems she just can't bear

to hear him talked about.  Of course, he was your father. 

They lived right there when you were born.  She doesn't

dislike you; she merely tries to make herself think

she does.  There's no sense in the world in you not

having his violin.  I've a great notion----"

"Has mother got it?"

"No.  I've never heard her mention it.  It was not at

home when he--when he died."

"Do you know where it is?"

"Yes.  I'm the only person on earth who does, except

the one who has it."

"Who is that?"

"I can't tell you, but I will see if they have it yet, and get

it if I can.  But if your mother finds it out she will never

forgive me."

"I can't help it," said Elnora.  I want that violin."

"I'll go to-morrow, and see if it has been destroyed."

"Destroyed!  Oh, Aunt Margaret!  Would any one dare?"

"I hardly think so.  It was a good instrument.  He played

it like a master."

"Tell me!" breathed Elnora.

"His hair was red and curled more than yours, and his

eyes were blue.  He was tall, slim, and the very imp

of mischief.  He joked and teased all day until he picked

up that violin.  Then his head bent over it, and his eyes

got big and earnest.  He seemed to listen as if he first

heard the notes, and then copied them.  Sometimes he

drew the bow trembly, like he wasn't sure it was right, and

he might have to try again.  He could almost drive you

crazy when he wanted to, and no man that ever lived could

make you dance as he could.  He made it all up as he went. 

He seemed to listen for his dancing music, too.  It appeared

to come to him; he'd begin to play and you had to keep time. 

You couldn't be still; he loved to sweep a crowd around with

that bow of his.  I think it was the thing you call inspiration. 

I can see him now, his handsome head bent, his cheeks red,

his eyes snapping, and that bow going across the strings,

and driving us like sheep.  He always kept his body swinging,

and he loved to play.  He often slighted his work shamefully,

and sometimes her a little; that is why she hated it--Elnora,

what are you making me do?"

The tears were rolling down Elnora's cheeks.  "Oh, Aunt

Margaret," she sobbed.  "Why haven't you told me about

him sooner?  I feel as if you had given my father to me

living, so that I could touch him.  I can see him, too! 

Why didn't you ever tell me before?  Go on!  Go on!"

"I can't, Elnora! I'm scared silly.  I never meant to

say anything.  If I hadn't promised her not to talk of

him to you she wouldn't have let you come here. 

She made me swear it."

"But why?  Why?  Was he a shame?  Was he disgraced?"

"Maybe it was that unjust feeling that took possession

of her when she couldn't help him from the swamp.  She had

to blame some one, or go crazy, so she took it out on you. 

At times, those first ten years, if I had talked to you,

and you had repeated anything to her, she might have

struck you too hard.  She was not master of herself. 

You must be patient with her, Elnora.  God only knows

what she has gone through, but I think she is a little

better, lately."

"So do I," said Elnora.  "She seems more interested in

my clothes, and she fixes me such delicious lunches that the

girls bring fine candies and cake and beg to trade.  I gave

half my lunch for a box of candy one day, brought it

home to her, and told her.  Since, she has wanted me to

carry a market basket and treat the crowd every day, she

was so pleased.  Life has been too monotonous for her. 

I think she enjoys even the little change made by my going

and coming.  She sits up half the night to read the library

books I bring, but she is so stubborn she won't even admit

that she touches them.  Tell me more about my father."

"Wait until I see if I can find the violin."

So Elnora went home in suspense, and that night she

added to her prayers:  "Dear Lord, be merciful to my

father, and oh, do help Aunt Margaret to get his violin."

Wesley and Billy came in to supper tired and hungry. 

Billy ate heartily, but his eyes often rested on a plate of

tempting cookies, and when Wesley offered them to the

boy he reached for one.  Margaret was compelled to explain

that cookies were forbidden that night.

"What!" said Wesley.  "Wrong words been coming again. 

Oh Billy, I do wish you could remember!  I can't sit

and eat cookies before a little boy who has none. 

I'll have to put mine back, too."  Billy's face twisted

in despair.

"Aw go on!" he said gruffly, but his chin was jumping,

for Wesley was his idol.

"Can't do it," said Wesley.  "It would choke me."

Billy turned to Margaret.  "You make him," he appealed.

"He can't, Billy," said Margaret.  "I know how he feels. 

You see, I can't myself."

Then Billy slid from his chair, ran to the couch, buried his

face in the pillow and cried heart-brokenly.  Wesley hurried

to the barn, and Margaret to the kitchen.  When the dishes

were washed Billy slipped from the back door.

Wesley piling hay into the mangers heard a sound behind him

and inquired, "That you, Billy?"

"Yes," answered Billy, "and it's all so dark you can't

see me now, isn't it?"

"Well, mighty near," answered Wesley.

"Then you stoop down and open your mouth."

Sinton had shared bites of apple and nuts for weeks, for

Billy had not learned how to eat anything without dividing

with Jimmy and Belle.  Since he had been separated

from them, he shared with Wesley and Margaret.  So he

bent over the boy and received an instalment of cooky

that almost choked him.

"Now you can eat it!" shouted Billy in delight. 

"It's all dark!  I can't see what you're doing at all!"

Wesley picked up the small figure and set the boy on the

back of a horse to bring his face level so that they could

talk as men.  He never towered from his height above

Billy, but always lifted the little soul when important

matters were to be discussed.

"Now what a dandy scheme," he commented.  "Did you

and Aunt Margaret fix it up?"

"No.  She ain't had hers yet.  But I got one for her. 

Ist as soon as you eat yours, I am going to take hers, and

feed her first time I find her in the dark."

"But Billy, where did you get the cookies?  You know

Aunt Margaret said you were not to have any."

"I ist took them," said Billy, "I didn't take them for me. 

I ist took them for you and her."

Wesley thought fast.  In the warm darkness of the barn

the horses crunched their corn, a rat gnawed at a corner of

the granary, and among the rafters the white pigeon cooed

a soft sleepy note to his dusky mate.

"Did--did--I steal?" wavered Billy.

Wesley's big hands closed until he almost hurt the boy.

"No!" he said vehemently.  "That is too big a word. 

You made a mistake.  You were trying to be a fine

little man, but you went at it the wrong way.  You only

made a mistake.  All of us do that, Billy.  The world

grows that way.  When we make mistakes we can see them;

that teaches us to be more careful the next time, and

so we learn."

"How wouldn't it be a mistake?"

"If you had told Aunt Margaret what you wanted to do, and

asked her for the cookies she would have given them to you."

"But I was 'fraid she wouldn't, and you ist had to have it."

"Not if it was wrong for me to have it, Billy.  I don't

want it that much."

"Must I take it back?"

"You think hard, and decide yourself."

"Lift me down," said Billy, after a silence, "I got

to put this in the jar, and tell her."

Wesley set the boy on the floor, but as he did so he

paused one second and strained him close to his breast.

Margaret sat in her chair sewing; Billy slipped in and

crept beside her.  The little face was lined with tragedy.

"Why Billy, whatever is the matter?" she cried as she

dropped her sewing and held out her arms.  Billy stood back. 

He gripped his little fists tight and squared his shoulders. 

"I got to be shut up in the closet," he said.

"Oh Billy!  What an unlucky day!  What have you

done now?"

"I stold!" gulped Billy.  "He said it was ist a mistake,

but it was worser 'an that.  I took something you told

me I wasn't to have."

"Stole!" Margaret was in despair.  "What, Billy?"

"Cookies!" answered Billy in equal trouble.

"Billy!" wailed Margaret.  "How could you?"

"It was for him and you," sobbed Billy.  "He said

he couldn't eat it 'fore me, but out in the barn it's all

dark and I couldn't see.  I thought maybe he could there. 

Then we might put out the light and you could have yours. 

He said I only made it worse, cos I mustn't take things,

so I got to go in the closet.  Will you hold me tight a

little bit first?  He did."

Margaret opened her arms and Billy rushed in and clung

to her a few seconds, with all the force of his being,

then he slipped to the floor and marched to the closet. 

Margaret opened the door.  Billy gave one glance at

the light, clinched his fists and, walking inside, climbed

on a box.  Margaret closed the door.

Then she sat and listened.  Was the air pure enough? 

Possibly he might smother.  She had read something once. 

Was it very dark?  What if there should be a mouse in

the closet and it should run across his foot and

frighten him into spasms.  Somewhere she had heard--

Margaret leaned forward with tense face and listened. 

Something dreadful might happen.  She could bear it

no longer.  She arose hurriedly and opened the door. 

Billy was drawn up on the box in a little heap, and he

lifted a disapproving face to her.

"Shut that door!" he said.  "I ain't been in here near

long enough yet!"

CHAPTER X

WHEREIN ELNORA HAS MORE FINANCIAL TROUBLES,

AND MRS. COMSTOCK AGAIN HEARS THE SONG OF THE LIMBERLOST

The following night Elnora hurried to Sintons'.

She threw open the back door and with anxious

eyes searched Margaret's face.

"You got it!" panted Elnora.  "You got it!  I can

see by your face that you did.  Oh, give it to me!"

"Yes, I got it, honey, I got it all right, but don't be

so fast.  It had been kept in such a damp place it needed

glueing, it had to have strings, and a key was gone. 

I knew how much you wanted it, so I sent Wesley right

to town with it.  They said they could fix it good as

new, but it should be varnished, and that it would take

several days for the glue to set.  You can have it Saturday."

"You found it where you thought it was?  You know

it's his?"

"Yes, it was just where I thought, and it's the same

violin I've seen him play hundreds of times.  It's all

right, only laying so long it needs fixing."

"Oh Aunt Margaret!  Can I ever wait?"

"It does seem a long time, but how could I help it? 

You couldn't do anything with it as it was.  You see,

it had been hidden away in a garret, and it needed cleaning

and drying to make it fit to play again.  You can

have it Saturday sure.  But Elnora, you've got to promise

me that you will leave it here, or in town, and not let

your mother get a hint of it.  I don't know what she'd do."

"Uncle Wesley can bring it here until Monday.  Then I will

take it to school so that I can practise at noon.  Oh, I

don't know how to thank you.  And there's more than the

violin for which to be thankful.  You've given me my father. 

Last night I saw him plainly as life."

"Elnora you were dreaming!"

"I know I was dreaming, but I saw him.  I saw him so

closely that a tiny white scar at the corner of his

eyebrow showed.  I was just reaching out to touch him

when he disappeared."

"Who told you there was a scar on his forehead?"

"No one ever did in all my life.  I saw it last night

as he went down.  And oh, Aunt Margaret!  I saw what

she did, and I heard his cries!  No matter what she does,

I don't believe I ever can be angry with her again.  Her heart

is broken, and she can't help it.  Oh, it was terrible,

but I am glad I saw it.  Now, I will always understand."

"I don't know what to make of that," said Margaret. 

I don't believe in such stuff at all, but you couldn't make

it up, for you didn't know."

"I only know that I played the violin last night, as

he played it, and while I played he came through the

woods from the direction of Carneys'.  It was summer

and all the flowers were in bloom.  He wore gray

trousers and a blue shirt, his head was bare, and his

face was beautiful.  I could almost touch him when he sank."

Margaret stood perplexed.  "I don't know what to

think of that!" she ejaculated.  "I was next to the last

person who saw him before he was drowned.  It was late

on a June afternoon, and he was dressed as you describe. 

He was bareheaded because he had found a quail's nest

before the bird began to brood, and he gathered the eggs

in his hat and left it in a fence corner to get on his way

home; they found it afterward."

"Was he coming from Carneys'?"

"He was on that side of the quagmire.  Why he ever skirted

it so close as to get caught is a mystery you will have to

dream out.  I never could understand it."

"Was he doing something he didn't want my mother to know?"

"Why?"

"Because if he had been, he might have cut close the

swamp so he couldn't be seen from the garden.  You know,

the whole path straight to the pool where he sank can be

seen from our back door.  It's firm on our side. 

The danger is on the north and east.  If he didn't want

mother to know, he might have tried to pass on either of

those sides and gone too close.  Was he in a hurry?"

"Yes, he was," said Margaret.  "He had been away

longer than he expected, and he almost ran when he

started home."

"And he'd left his violin somewhere that you knew, and

you went and got it.  I'll wager he was going to play,

and didn't want mother to find it out!"

"It wouldn't make any difference to you if you knew

every little thing, so quit thinking about it, and just be

glad you are to have what he loved best of anything."

"That's true.  Now I must hurry home.  I am dreadfully late."

Elnora sprang up and ran down the road, but when

she approached the cabin she climbed the fence, crossed

the open woods pasture diagonally and entered at the

back garden gate.  As she often came that way when she

had been looking for cocoons her mother asked no questions.

Elnora lived by the minute until Saturday, when,

contrary to his usual custom, Wesley went to town in

the forenoon, taking her along to buy some groceries. 

Wesley drove straight to the music store, and asked for

the violin he had left to be mended.

In its new coat of varnish, with new keys and strings,

it seemed much like any other violin to Sinton, but to

Elnora it was the most beautiful instrument ever made,

and a priceless treasure.  She held it in her arms, touched

the strings softly and then she drew the bow across them

in whispering measure.  She had no time to think what

a remarkably good bow it was for sixteen years' disuse. 

The tan leather case might have impressed her as being

in fine condition also, had she been in a state to

question anything.  She did remember to ask for the bill

and she was gravely presented with a slip calling for

four strings, one key, and a coat of varnish, total, one

dollar fifty.  It seemed to Elnora she never could put the

precious instrument in the case and start home.  Wesley left

her in the music store where the proprietor showed her all

he could about tuning, and gave her several beginners'

sheets of notes and scales.  She carried the violin in her

arms as far as the crossroads at the corner of their land,

then reluctantly put it under the carriage seat.

As soon as her work was done she ran down to Sintons'

and began to play, and on Monday the violin went to

school with her.  She made arrangements with the superintendent

to leave it in his office and scarcely took time for her food

at noon, she was so eager to practise.  Often one of the

girls asked her to stay in town all night for some lecture

or entertainment.  She could take the violin with her,

practise, and secure help.  Her skill was so great that

the leader of the orchestra offered to give her lessons

if she would play to pay for them, so her progress was

rapid in technical work.  But from the first day the

instrument became hers, with perfect faith that she could

play as her father did, she spent half her practice time in

imitating the sounds of all outdoors and improvising the

songs her happy heart sang in those days.

So the first year went, and the second and third were

a repetition; but the fourth was different, for that was the

close of the course, ending with graduation and all its

attendant ceremonies and expenses.  To Elnora these

appeared mountain high.  She had hoarded every cent,

thinking twice before she parted with a penny, but teaching

natural history in the grades had taken time from her studies

in school which must be made up outside.  She was a

conscientious student, ranking first in most of her classes,

and standing high in all branches.  Her interest in

her violin had grown with the years.  She went to school

early and practised half an hour in the little room adjoining

the stage, while the orchestra gathered.  She put in a

full hour at noon, and remained another half hour at night. 

She carried the violin to Sintons' on Saturday and practised

all the time she could there, while Margaret watched the

road to see that Mrs. Comstock was not coming.  She had

become so skilful that it was a delight to hear her play

music of any composer, but when she played her own, that

was joy inexpressible, for then the wind blew, the water

rippled, the Limberlost sang her songs of sunshine, shadow,

black storm, and white night.

Since her dream Elnora had regarded her mother with

peculiar tenderness.  The girl realized, in a measure, what

had happened.  She avoided anything that possibly could

stir bitter memories or draw deeper a line on the hard,

white face.  This cost many sacrifices, much work, and

sometimes delayed progress, but the horror of that awful

dream remained with Elnora.  She worked her way cheerfully,

doing all she could to interest her mother in things

that happened in school, in the city, and by carrying books

that were entertaining from the public library.

Three years had changed Elnora from the girl of sixteen

to the very verge of womanhood.  She had grown tall,

round, and her face had the loveliness of perfect

complexion, beautiful eyes and hair and an added touch

from within that might have been called comprehension. 

It was a compound of self-reliance, hard knocks, heart

hunger, unceasing work, and generosity.  There was no

form of suffering with which the girl could not sympathize,

no work she was afraid to attempt, no subject she had

investigated she did not understand.  These things combined

to produce a breadth and depth of character altogether unusual. 

She was so absorbed in her classes and her music that she

had not been able to gather many specimens.  When she

realized this and hunted assiduously, she soon found

that changing natural conditions had affected such work. 

Men all around were clearing available land.  The trees

fell wherever corn would grow.  The swamp was broken by

several gravel roads, dotted in places around the edge

with little frame houses, and the machinery of oil wells;

one especially low place around the region of Freckles's

room was nearly all that remained of the original. 

Wherever the trees fell the moisture dried, the creeks

ceased to flow, the river ran low, and at times the

bed was dry.  With unbroken sweep the winds of the

west came, gathering force with every mile and howled and

raved; threatening to tear the shingles from the roof,

blowing the surface from the soil in clouds of fine dust and

rapidly changing everything.  From coming in with two or

three dozen rare moths in a day, in three years' time Elnora

had grown to be delighted with finding two or three. 

Big pursy caterpillars could not be picked from their favourite

bushes, when there were no bushes.  Dragonflies would

not hover over dry places, and butterflies became scarce

in proportion to the flowers, while no land yields over three

crops of Indian relics.

All the time the expense of books, clothing and

incidentals had continued.  Elnora added to her bank

account whenever she could, and drew out when she was

compelled, but she omitted the important feature of calling

for a balance.  So, one early spring morning in the last

quarter of the fourth year, she almost fainted when she

learned that her funds were gone.  Commencement with its

extra expense was coming, she had no money, and very few

cocoons to open in June, which would be too late.  She had

one collection for the Bird Woman complete to a pair of

Imperialis moths, and that was her only asset.  On the

day she added these big Yellow Emperors she had been

promised a check for three hundred dollars, but she would

not get it until these specimens were secured. 

She remembered that she never had found an Emperor

before June.

Moreover, that sum was for her first year in college. 

Then she would be of age, and she meant to sell enough of

her share of her father's land to finish.  She knew her

mother would oppose her bitterly in that, for Mrs.

Comstock had clung to every acre and tree that belonged to

her husband.  Her land was almost complete forest where her

neighbours owned cleared farms, dotted with wells that

every hour sucked oil from beneath her holdings, but she

was too absorbed in the grief she nursed to know or care. 

The Brushwood road and the redredging of the big Limberlost

ditch had been more than she could pay from her income,

and she had trembled before the wicket as she asked

the banker if she had funds to pay it, and wondered why he

laughed when he assured her she had.  For Mrs. Comstock

had spent no time on compounding interest, and

never added the sums she had been depositing through

nearly twenty years.  Now she thought her funds were

almost gone, and every day she worried over expenses. 

She could see no reason in going through the forms of

graduation when pupils had all in their heads that was

required to graduate.  Elnora knew she had to have her

diploma in order to enter the college she wanted to attend,

but she did not dare utter the word, until high school

was finished, for, instead of softening as she hoped her

mother had begun to do, she seemed to remain very

much the same.

When the girl reached the swamp she sat on a log and

thought over the expense she was compelled to meet. 

Every member of her particular set was having a large

photograph taken to exchange with the others.  Elnora loved

these girls and boys, and to say she could not have

their pictures to keep was more than she could endure. 

Each one would give to all the others a handsome

graduation present.  She knew they would prepare gifts for

her whether she could make a present in return or not. 

Then it was the custom for each graduating class to give a

great entertainment and use the funds to present the school

with a statue for the entrance hall.  Elnora had been cast

for and was practising a part in that performance.  She was

expected to furnish her dress and personal necessities. 

She had been told that she must have a green gauze dress,

and where was it to come from?

Every girl of the class would have three beautiful new

frocks for Commencement: one for the baccalaureate

sermon, another, which could be plain, for graduation

exercises, and a handsome one for the banquet and ball. 

Elnora faced the past three years and wondered how she

could have spent so much money and not kept account of it. 

She did not realize where it had gone.  She did not

know what she could do now.  She thought over the

photographs, and at last settled that question to

her satisfaction.  She studied longer over the gifts,

ten handsome ones there must be, and at last decided she

could arrange for them.  The green dress came first. 

The lights would be dim in the scene, and the setting

deep woods.  She could manage that.  She simply could not

have three dresses.  She would have to get a very simple one

for the sermon and do the best she could for graduation. 

Whatever she got for that must be made with a guimpe that

could be taken out to make it a little more festive for

the ball.  But where could she get even two pretty dresses?

The only hope she could see was to break into the collection

of the man from India, sell some moths, and try to replace

them in June.  But in her soul she knew that never

would do.  No June ever brought just the things she

hoped it would.  If she spent the college money she knew

she could not replace it.  If she did not, the only way was

to secure a room in the grades and teach a year.  Her work

there had been so appreciated that Elnora felt with

the recommendation she knew she could get from the

superintendent and teachers she could secure a position. 

She was sure she could pass the examinations easily. 

She had once gone on Saturday, taken them and secured a

license for a year before she left the Brushwood school.

She wanted to start to college when the other girls were going. 

If she could make the first year alone, she could manage

the remainder.  But make that first year herself, she must. 

Instead of selling any of her collection, she must hunt

as she never before had hunted and find a Yellow Emperor. 

She had to have it, that was all.  Also, she had to have

those dresses.  She thought of Wesley and dismissed it. 

She thought of the Bird Woman, and knew she could not

tell her.  She thought of every way in which she ever had

hoped to earn money and realized that with the play,

committee meetings, practising, and final examinations

she scarcely had time to live, much less to do more than

the work required for her pictures and gifts.  Again Elnora

was in trouble, and this time it seemed the worst of all.

It was dark when she arose and went home.

"Mother," she said, "I have a piece of news that is

decidedly not cheerful."

"Then keep it to yourself!" said Mrs. Comstock.  "I think

I have enough to bear without a great girl like you

piling trouble on me."

"My money is all gone!" said Elnora.

"Well, did you think it would last forever?  It's been

a marvel to me that it's held out as well as it has, the way

you've dressed and gone."

"I don't think I've spent any that I was not compelled

to," said Elnora.  "I've dressed on just as little as I

possibly could to keep going.  I am heartsick.  I thought

I had over fifty dollars to put me through Commencement,

but they tell me it is all gone."

"Fifty dollars!  To put you through Commencement! 

What on earth are you proposing to do?"

"The same as the rest of them, in the very cheapest

way possible."

"And what might that be?"

Elnora omitted the photographs, the gifts and the play. 

She told only of the sermon, graduation exercises, and the ball.

"Well, I wouldn't trouble myself over that," sniffed

Mrs. Comstock.  "If you want to go to a sermon, put on

the dress you always use for meeting.  If you need white

for the exercises wear the new dress you got last spring. 

As for the ball, the best thing for you to do is to stay a

mile away from such folly.  In my opinion you'd best

bring home your books, and quit right now.  You can't

be fixed like the rest of them, don't be so foolish

as to run into it.  Just stay here and let these last few

days go.  You can't learn enough more to be of any account."

"But, mother," gasped Elnora.  "You don't understand!"

"Oh, yes, I do!" said Mrs. Comstock.  "I understand perfectly. 

So long as the money lasted, you held up your head,

and went sailing without even explaining how you got it

from the stuff you gathered.  Goodness knows I couldn't see. 

But now it's gone, you come whining to me.  What have I got? 

Have you forgot that the ditch and the road completely

strapped me?  I haven't any money.  There's nothing for you

to do but get out of it."

"I can't!" said Elnora desperately.  "I've gone on too long. 

It would make a break in everything.  They wouldn't let me

have my diploma!"

"What's the difference?  You've got the stuff in your head. 

I wouldn't give a rap for a scrap of paper.  That don't

mean anything!"

"But I've worked four years for it, and I can't enter--

I ought to have it to help me get a school, when I want

to teach.  If I don't have my grades to show, people

will think I quit because I couldn't pass my examinations. 

I must have my diploma!"

"Then get it!" said Mrs. Comstock.

"The only way is to graduate with the others."

"Well, graduate if you are bound to!"

"But I can't, unless I have things enough like the

class, that I don't look as I did that first day."

"Well, please remember I didn't get you into this,

and I can't get you out.  You are set on having your

own way.  Go on, and have it, and see how you like it!"

Elnora went upstairs and did not come down again

that night, which her mother called pouting.

"I've thought all night," said the girl at breakfast,

"and I can't see any way but to borrow the money of

Uncle Wesley and pay it back from some that the Bird

Woman will owe me, when I get one more specimen. 

But that means that I can't go to--that I will have to

teach this winter, if I can get a city grade or a

country school."

"Just you dare go dinging after Wesley Sinton for money,"

cried Mrs. Comstock.  "You won't do any such a thing!"

"I can't see any other way.  I've got to have the money!"

"Quit, I tell you!"

"I can't quit!--I've gone too far!"

"Well then, let me get your clothes, and you can pay

me back."

"But you said you had no money!"

"Maybe I can borrow some at the bank.  Then you

can return it when the Bird Woman pays you."

"All right," said Elnora.  "I don't need expensive things. 

Just some kind of a pretty cheap white dress for the sermon,

and a white one a little better than I had last summer,

for Commencement and the ball.  I can use the white

gloves and shoes I got myself for last year, and you can

get my dress made at the same place you did that one. 

They have my measurements, and do perfect work. 

Don't get expensive things.  It will be warm so I can

go bareheaded."

Then she started to school, but was so tired and

discouraged she scarcely could walk.  Four years' plans

going in one day!  For she felt that if she did not start

to college that fall she never would.  Instead of feeling

relieved at her mother's offer, she was almost too ill to

go on.  For the thousandth time she groaned:  "Oh, why

didn't I keep account of my money?"

After that the days passed so swiftly she scarcely had

time to think, but several trips her mother made to town,

and the assurance that everything was all right,

satisfied Elnora.  She worked very hard to pass good

final examinations and perfect herself for the play. 

For two days she had remained in town with the Bird Woman

in order to spend more time practising and at her work.

Often Margaret had asked about her dresses for graduation,

and Elnora had replied that they were with a woman in the

city who had made her a white dress for last year's

Commencement when she was a junior usher, and they would

be all right.  So Margaret, Wesley, and Billy concerned

themselves over what they would give her for a present. 

Margaret suggested a beautiful dress.  Wesley said that

would look to every one as if she needed dresses. 

The thing was to get a handsome gift like all the others

would have.  Billy wanted to present her a five-dollar gold

piece to buy music for her violin.  He was positive Elnora

would like that best of anything.

It was toward the close of the term when they drove to

town one evening to try to settle this important question. 

They knew Mrs. Comstock had been alone several days,

so they asked her to accompany them.  She had

been more lonely than she would admit, filled with unusual

unrest besides, and so she was glad to go.  But before

they had driven a mile Billy had told that they were going

to buy Elnora a graduation present, and Mrs. Comstock

devoutly wished that she had remained at home.  She was

prepared when Billy asked:  "Aunt Kate, what are you going

to give Elnora when she graduates?"

"Plenty to eat, a good bed to sleep in, and do all

the work while she trollops," answered Mrs. Comstock dryly.

Billy reflected.  "I guess all of them have that," he said. 

"I mean a present you buy at the store, like Christmas?"

"It is only rich folks who buy presents at stores,"

replied Mrs.Comstock. "I can't afford it."

"Well, we ain't rich," he said, "but we are going to buy

Elnora something as fine as the rest of them have if we sell

a corner of the farm.  Uncle Wesley said so."

"A fool and his land are soon parted," said Mrs.

Comstock tersely.  Wesley and Billy laughed, but

Margaret did not enjoy the remark.

While they were searching the stores for something on

which all of them could decide, and Margaret was holding

Billy to keep him from saying anything before Mrs. Comstock

about the music on which he was determined, Mr. Brownlee

met Wesley and stopped to shake hands.

"I see your boy came out finely," he said.

"I don't allow any boy anywhere to be finer than Billy,"

said Wesley.

"I guess you don't allow any girl to surpass Elnora,"

said Mr. Brownlee.  "She comes home with Ellen often,

and my wife and I love her.  Ellen says she is great in her

part to-night.  Best thing in the whole play!  Of course,

you are in to see it!  If you haven't reserved seats, you'd

better start pretty soon, for the high school auditorium

only seats a thousand.  It's always jammed at these home-

talent plays.  All of us want to see how our children perform."

"Why yes, of course," said the bewildered Wesley. 

Then he hurried to Margaret.  "Say," he said, "there is

going to be a play at the high school to-night; and Elnora

is in it.  Why hasn't she told us?"

"I don't know," said Margaret, "but I'm going."

"So am I," said Billy.

"Me too!" said Wesley, "unless you think for some

reason she doesn't want us.  Looks like she would have

told us if she had.  I'm going to ask her mother."

"Yes, that's what's she's been staying in town for," said

Mrs. Comstock.  "It's some sort of a swindle to raise

money for her class to buy some silly thing to stick up in

the school house hall to remember them by.  I don't know

whether it's now or next week, but there's something of the

kind to be done."

"Well, it's to-night," said Wesley, "and we are going. 

It's my treat, and we've got to hurry or we won't get in. 

There are reserved seats, and we have none, so it's the

gallery for us, but I don't care so I get to take one good

peep at Elnora."

"S'pose she plays?" whispered Margaret in his ear.

"Aw, tush!  She couldn't!" said Wesley.

"Well, she's been doing it three years in the orchestra,

and working like a slave at it."

"Oh, well that's different.  She's in the play to-night. 

Brownlee told me so.  Come on, quick!  We'll drive and

hitch closest place we can find to the building."

Margaret went in the excitement of the moment, but

she was troubled.

When they reached the building Wesley tied the team

to a railing and Billy sprang out to help Margaret. 

Mrs. Comstock sat still.

"Come on, Kate," said Wesley, reaching his hand.

"I'm not going anywhere," said Mrs. Comstock,

settling comfortably back against the cushions.

All of them begged and pleaded, but it was no use.  Not an

inch would Mrs. Comstock budge.  The night was warm and

the carriage comfortable, the horses were securely hitched. 

She did not care to see what idiotic thing a pack of school

children were doing, she would wait until the Sintons returned. 

Wesley told her it might be two hours, and she said she did

not care if it were four, so they left her.

"Did you ever see such----?"

"Cookies!" cried Billy.

"Such blamed stubbornness in all your life?" demanded Wesley. 

"Won't come to see as fine a girl as Elnora in a

stage performance.  Why, I wouldn't miss it for fifty dollars!

"I think it's a blessing she didn't," said Margaret placidly. 

"I begged unusually hard so she wouldn't.  I'm scared of my

life for fear Elnora will play."

They found seats near the door where they could see

fairly well.  Billy stood at the back of the hall and had a

good view.  By and by, a great volume of sound welled

from the orchestra, but Elnora was not playing.

"Told you so!" said Sinton.  "Got a notion to go out

and see if Kate won't come now.  She can take my seat,

and I'll stand with Billy."

"You sit  still!" said Margaret emphatically.  "This is

not over yet."

So Wesley remained in his seat.  The play opened and

progressed very much as all high school plays have gone

for the past fifty years.  But Elnora did not appear in any

of the scenes.

Out in the warm summer night a sour, grim woman

nursed an aching heart and tried to justify herself. 

The effort irritated her intensely.  She felt that she

could not afford the things that were being done. 

The old fear of losing the land that she and Robert

Comstock had purchased and started clearing was strong

upon her.  She was thinking of him, how she needed him,

when the orchestra music poured from the open windows

near her.  Mrs. Comstock endured it as long as she

could, and then slipped from the carriage and fled down

the street.

She did not know how far she went or how long she stayed,

but everything was still, save an occasional raised

voice when she wandered back.  She stood looking at

the building.  Slowly she entered the wide gates and

followed up the walk.  Elnora had been coming here for

almost four years.  When Mrs. Comstock reached the door she

looked inside.  The wide hall was lighted with electricity,

and the statuary and the decorations of the walls did not

seem like pieces of foolishness.  The marble appeared

pure, white, and the big pictures most interesting. 

She walked the length of the hall and slowly read the titles

of the statues and the names of the pupils who had donated them. 

She speculated on where the piece Elnora's class would buy

could be placed to advantage.

Then she wondered if they were having a large enough

audience to buy marble.  She liked it better than the

bronze, but it looked as if it cost more.  How white the

broad stairway was!  Elnora had been climbing those

stairs for years and never told her they were marble. 

Of course, she thought they were wood.  Probably the upper

hall was even grander than this.  She went over to the

fountain, took a drink, climbed to the first landing and

looked around her, and then without thought to the second. 

There she came opposite the wide-open doors and the

entrance to the auditorium packed with people and a

crowd standing outside.  When they noticed a tall

woman with white face and hair and black dress, one by

one they stepped a little aside, so that Mrs. Comstock

could see the stage.  It was covered with curtains, and no

one was doing anything.  Just as she turned to go a sound

so faint that every one leaned forward and listened,

drifted down the auditorium.  It was difficult to tell just

what it was; after one instant half the audience looked

toward the windows, for it seemed only a breath of wind

rustling freshly opened leaves; merely a hint of stirring air.

Then the curtains were swept aside swiftly.  The stage

had been transformed into a lovely little corner of creation,

where trees and flowers grew and moss carpeted the earth. 

A soft wind blew and it was the gray of dawn.  Suddenly a

robin began to sing, then a song sparrow joined him, and

then several orioles began talking at once.  The light grew

stronger, the dew drops trembled, flower perfume began

to creep out to the audience; the air moved the branches

gently and a rooster crowed.  Then all the scene was

shaken with a babel of bird notes in which you could hear

a cardinal whistling, and a blue finch piping.  Back somewhere

among the high branches a dove cooed and then a horse

neighed shrilly.  That set a blackbird crying, "T'check,"

and a whole flock answered it.  The crows began to caw and

a lamb bleated.  Then the grosbeaks, chats, and vireos

had something to say, and the sun rose higher, the light

grew stronger and the breeze rustled the treetops

loudly; a cow bawled and the whole barnyard answered. 

The guineas were clucking, the turkey gobbler strutting,

the hens calling, the chickens cheeping, the light streamed

down straight overhead and the bees began to hum.  The air

stirred strongly, and away in an unseen field a reaper

clacked and rattled through ripening wheat while the

driver whistled.  An uneasy mare whickered to her colt,

the colt answered, and the light began to decline. 

Miles away a rooster crowed for twilight, and dusk was

coming down.  Then a catbird and a brown thrush sang

against a grosbeak and a hermit thrush.  The air was

tremulous with heavenly notes, the lights went out in the

hall, dusk swept across the stage, a cricket sang and a

katydid answered, and a wood pewee wrung the heart with

its lonesome cry.  Then a night hawk screamed, a whip-

poor-will complained, a belated killdeer swept the sky,

and the night wind sang a louder song.  A little screech owl

tuned up in the distance, a barn owl replied, and a great

horned owl drowned both their voices.  The moon shone and the

scene was warm with mellow light.  The bird voices died

and soft exquisite melody began to swell and roll.  In the

centre of the stage, piece by piece the grasses, mosses and

leaves dropped from an embankment, the foliage softly

blew away, while plainer and plainer came the outlines of a

lovely girl figure draped in soft clinging green.  In her

shower of bright hair a few green leaves and white blossoms

clung, and they fell over her robe down to her feet.  Her white

throat and arms were bare, she leaned forward a little and

swayed with the melody, her eyes fast on the clouds above her,

her lips parted, a pink tinge of exercise in her cheeks as

she drew her bow.  She played as only a peculiar chain of

circumstances puts it in the power of a very few to play. 

All nature had grown still, the violin sobbed, sang,

danced and quavered on alone, no voice in particular;

the soul of the melody of all nature combined in one

great outpouring.

At the doorway, a white-faced woman endured it as long

as she could and then fell senseless.  The men nearest

carried her down the hall to the fountain, revived her, and

then placed her in the carriage to which she directed them. 

The girl played on and never knew.  When she finished,

the uproar of applause sounded a block down the street, but

the half-senseless woman scarcely realized what it meant. 

Then the girl came to the front of the stage, bowed, and

lifting the violin she played her conception of an invitation

to dance.  Every living soul within sound of her notes

strained their nerves to sit still and let only their hearts

dance with her.  When that began the woman ran toward

the country.  She never stopped until the carriage overtook

her half-way to her cabin.  She said she had grown

tired of sitting, and walked on ahead.  That night she

asked Billy to remain with her and sleep on Elnora's bed. 

Then she pitched headlong upon her own, and suffered

agony of soul such as she never before had known. 

The swamp had sent back the soul of her loved dead and

put it into the body of the daughter she resented,

and it was almost more than she could endure and live.

CHAPTER XI

WHEREIN ELNORA GRADUATES,

AND FRECKLES AND THE ANGEL SEND GIFTS

That was Friday night.  Elnora came home Saturday morning

and began work.  Mrs. Comstock asked no questions, and

the girl only told her that the audience had been large

enough to more than pay for the piece of statuary the class

had selected for the hall.  Then she inquired about her

dresses and was told they would be ready for her.  She had

been invited to go to the Bird Woman's to prepare for both

the sermon and Commencement exercises.  Since there was so

much practising to do, it had been arranged that she should

remain there from the night of the sermon until after she

was graduated.  If Mrs. Comstock decided to attend she was

to drive in with the Sintons.  When Elnora begged her to

come she said she cared nothing about such silliness.

It was almost time for Wesley to come to take Elnora to

the city, when fresh from her bath, and dressed to her outer

garment, she stood with expectant face before her mother

and cried:  "Now my dress, mother!"

Mrs. Comstock was pale as she replied:  "It's on my bed. 

Help yourself."

Elnora opened the door and stepped into her mother's

room with never a misgiving.  Since the night Margaret

and Wesley had brought her clothing, when she first started

to school, her mother had selected all of her dresses, with

Mrs. Sinton's help made most of them, and Elnora had

paid the bills.  The white dress of the previous spring was

the first made at a dressmaker's.  She had worn that as

junior usher at Commencement; but her mother had selected

the material, had it made, and it had fitted perfectly and

had been suitable in every way.  So with her heart at rest on

that point, Elnora hurried to the bed to find only her last

summer's white dress, freshly washed and ironed.  For an

instant she stared at it, then she picked up the garment,

looked at the bed beneath it, and her gaze slowly swept the room.

It was unfamiliar.  Perhaps this was the third time she

had been in it since she was a very small child.  Her eyes

ranged over the beautiful walnut dresser, the tall bureau,

the big chest, inside which she never had seen, and the row

of masculine attire hanging above it.  Somewhere a

dainty lawn or mull dress simply must be hanging: but it

was not.  Elnora dropped on the chest because she felt too

weak to stand.  In less than two hours she must be in

the church, at Onabasha.  She could not wear a last

year's washed dress.  She had nothing else.  She leaned

against the wall and her father's overcoat brushed her face. 

She caught the folds and clung to it with all her might.

"Oh father!  Father!" she moaned.  "I need you!  I don't

believe you would have done this!"  At last she

opened the door.

"I can't find my dress," she said.

"Well, as it's the only one there I shouldn't think it

would be much trouble."

"You mean for me to wear an old washed dress to-night?"

"It's a good dress.  There isn't a hole in it!  There's no

reason on earth why you shouldn't wear it."

"Except that I will not," said Elnora.  "Didn't you

provide any dress for Commencement, either?"

"If you soil that to-night, I've plenty of time to wash

it again."

Wesley's voice called from the gate.

"In a minute," answered Elnora.

She ran upstairs and in an incredibly short time came

down wearing one of her gingham school dresses.  Her face

cold and hard, she passed her mother and went into

the night.  Half an hour later Margaret and Billy stopped

for Mrs. Comstock with the carriage.  She had determined

fully that she would not go before they called.  With the

sound of their voices a sort of horror of being left seized her,

so she put on her hat, locked the door and went out to them.

"How did Elnora look?" inquired Margaret anxiously.

"Like she always does," answered Mrs. Comstock curtly.

"I do hope her dresses are as pretty as the others,"

said Margaret.  "None of them will have prettier faces or

nicer ways."

Wesley was waiting before the big church to take care of

the team.  As they stood watching the people enter the

building, Mrs. Comstock felt herself growing ill.  When they

went inside among the lights, saw the flower-decked stage,

and the masses of finely dressed people, she grew no better. 

She could hear Margaret and Billy softly commenting on what

was being done.

"That first chair in the very front row is Elnora's,"

exulted Billy, "cos she's got the highest grades, and so she

gets to lead the procession to the platform."

"The first chair!"  "Lead the procession!"  Mrs. Comstock

was dumbfounded.  The notes of the pipe organ began to fill

the building in a slow rolling march.  Would Elnora lead

the procession in a gingham dress?  Or would she be absent

and her chair vacant on this great occasion?  For now, Mrs.

Comstock could see that it was a great occasion.  Every one

would remember how Elnora had played a few nights before,

and they would miss her and pity her.  Pity?  Because she had

no one to care for her.  Because she was worse off than if she

had no mother.  For the first time in her life, Mrs. Comstock

began to study herself as she would appear to others. 

Every time a junior girl came fluttering down the aisle,

leading some one to a seat, and Mrs. Comstock saw a beautiful

white dress pass, a wave of positive illness swept over her. 

What had she done?  What would become of Elnora?

As Elnora rode to the city, she answered Wesley's

questions in monosyllables so that he thought she was

nervous or rehearsing her speech and did not care to talk. 

Several times the girl tried to tell him and realized that if

she said the first word it would bring uncontrollable tears. 

The Bird Woman opened the screen and stared unbelievingly.

"Why, I thought you would be ready; you are so late!"

she said.  "If you have waited to dress here, we must hurry."

"I have nothing to put on," said Elnora.

In bewilderment the Bird Woman drew her inside.

"Did--did--" she faltered.  "Did you think you would wear that?"

"No.  I thought I would telephone Ellen that there had

been an accident and I could not come.  I don't know yet

how to explain.  I'm too sick to think.  Oh, do you suppose

I can get something made by Tuesday, so that I can graduate?"

"Yes; and you'll get something on you to-night, so that

you can lead your class, as you have done for four years. 

Go to my room and take off that gingham, quickly.  Anna, drop

everything, and come help me."

The Bird Woman ran to the telephone and called Ellen Brownlee.

"Elnora has had an accident.  She will be a little late,"

she said.  "You have got to make them wait.  Have them

play extra music before the march."

Then she turned to the maid.  "Tell Benson to have the

carriage at the gate, just as soon as he can get it there. 

Then come to my room.  Bring the thread box from the

sewing-room, that roll of wide white ribbon on the cutting

table, and gather all the white pins from every dresser in

the house.  But first come with me a minute."

"I want that trunk with the Swamp Angel's stuff in it,

from the cedar closet," she panted as they reached the top

of the stairs. 

They hurried down the hall together and dragged the

big trunk to the Bird Woman's room.  She opened it and

began tossing out white stuff.

"How lucky that she left these things!" she cried. 

"Here are white shoes, gloves, stockings, fans, everything!"

"I am all ready but a dress," said Elnora.

The Bird Woman began opening closets and pulling out

drawers and boxes.

"I think I can make it this way," she said.

She snatched up a creamy lace yoke with long sleeves

that recently had been made for her and held it out. 

Elnora slipped into it, and the Bird Woman began smoothing

out wrinkles and sewing in pins.  It fitted very well

with a little lapping in the back.  Next, from among the

Angel's clothing she caught up a white silk waist with low

neck and elbow sleeves, and Elnora put it on.  It was

large enough, but distressingly short in the waist, for the

Angel had worn it at a party when she was sixteen.  The Bird

Woman loosened the sleeves and pushed them to a puff on

the shoulders, catching them in places with pins. 

She began on the wide draping of the yoke, fastening it

front, back and at each shoulder.  She pulled down the

waist and pinned it.  Next came a soft white dress skirt

of her own.  By pinning her waist band quite four inches

above Elnora's, the Bird Woman could secure a perfect

Empire sweep, with the clinging silk.  Then she began

with the wide white ribbon that was to trim a new frock for

herself, bound it three times around the high waist effect

she had managed, tied the ends in a knot and let them fall

to the floor in a beautiful sash.

"I want four white roses, each with two or three

leaves," she cried.

Anna ran to bring them, while the Bird Woman added pins.

"Elnora," she said, "forgive me, but tell me truly.  Is your

mother so poor as to make this necessary?"

"No," answered Elnora.  "Next year I am heir to my share

of over three hundred acres of land covered with almost

as valuable timber as was in the Limberlost.  We adjoin it. 

There could be thirty oil wells drilled that would yield

to us the thousands our neighbours are draining from under

us, and the bare land is worth over one hundred dollars an

acre for farming.  She is not poor, she is--I don't know

what she is.  A great trouble soured and warped her. 

It made her peculiar.  She does not in the least understand,

but it is because she doesn't care to, instead of ignorance. 

She does not----"

Elnora stopped.

"She is--is different," finished the girl.

Anna came with the roses.  The Bird Woman set one

on the front of the draped yoke, one on each shoulder and

the last among the bright masses of brown hair.  Then she

turned the girl facing the tall mirror.

"Oh!" panted Elnora.  "You are a genius!  Why, I

will look as well as any of them."

"Thank goodness for that!" cried the Bird Woman. 

"If it wouldn't do, I should have been ill.  You are lovely;

altogether lovely!  Ordinarily I shouldn't say that; but

when I think of how you are carpentered, I'm admiring

the result."

The organ began rolling out the march as they came in sight. 

Elnora took her place at the head of the procession,

while every one wondered.  Secretly they had hoped that

she would be dressed well enough, that she would not

appear poor and neglected.  What this radiant young

creature, gowned in the most recent style, her smooth skin

flushed with excitement, and a rose-set coronet of red gold

on her head, had to do with the girl they knew was difficult

to decide.  The signal was given and Elnora began the

slow march across the vestry and down the aisle.  The music

welled softly, and Margaret began to sob without knowing why.

Mrs. Comstock gripped her hands together and shut

her eyes.  It seemed an eternity to the suffering woman

before Margaret caught her arm and whispered, "Oh, Kate! 

For any sake look at her!  Here!  The aisle across!"

Mrs. Comstock opened her eyes and directing them

where she was told, gazed intently, and slid down in

her seat close to collapse.  She was saved by Margaret's

tense clasp and her command:  "Here!  Idiot!  Stop that!"

In the blaze of light Elnora climbed the steps to the

palm-embowered platform, crossed it and took her place. 

Sixty young men and women, each of them dressed the

best possible, followed her.  There were manly, fine-

looking men in that class which Elnora led.  There were

girls of beauty and grace, but not one of them was handsomer

or clothed in better taste than she.

Billy thought the time never would come when Elnora

would see him, but at last she met his eye, then Margaret

and Wesley had faint signs of recognition in turn,

but there was no softening of the girl's face and no hint

of a smile when she saw her mother.

Heartsick, Katharine Comstock tried to prove to herself

that she was justified in what she had done, but she

could not.  She tried to blame Elnora for not saying that

she was to lead a procession and sit on a platform in the

sight of hundreds of people; but that was impossible, for

she realized that she would have scoffed and not understood

if she had been told.  Her heart pained until she suffered

with every breath.

When at last the exercises were over she climbed into

the carriage and rode home without a word.  She did

not hear what Margaret and Billy were saying.  She scarcely

heard Wesley, who drove behind, when he told her that

Elnora would not be home until Wednesday.  Early the next

morning Mrs. Comstock was on her way to Onabasha. 

She was waiting when the Brownlee store opened. 

She examined ready-made white dresses, but they had

only one of the right size, and it was marked forty dollars. 

Mrs. Comstock did not hesitate over the price, but whether

the dress would be suitable.  She would have to ask Elnora. 

She inquired her way to the home of the Bird Woman and knocked.

"Is Elnora Comstock here?" she asked the maid.

"Yes, but she is still in bed.  I was told to let her

sleep as long as she would."

"Maybe I could sit here and wait," said Mrs. Comstock. 

"I want to see about getting her a dress for to-morrow. 

I am her mother."

"Then you don't need wait or worry," said the girl cheerfully. 

"There are two women up in the sewing-room at work on a

dress for her right now.  It will be done in time, and it will

be a beauty."

Mrs. Comstock turned and trudged back to the Limberlost. 

The bitterness in her soul became a physical actuality,

which water would not wash from her lips.  She was

too late!  She was not needed.  Another woman was

mothering her girl.  Another woman would prepare a

beautiful dress such as Elnora had worn the previous night. 

The girl's love and gratitude would go to her.  Mrs. Comstock

tried the old process of blaming some one else, but she felt

no better.  She nursed her grief as closely as ever in

the long days of the girl's absence.  She brooded

over Elnora's possession of the forbidden violin and her

ability to play it until the performance could not have

been told from her father's.  She tried every refuge her

mind could conjure, to quiet her heart and remove the fear

that the girl never would come home again, but it persisted. 

Mrs. Comstock could neither eat nor sleep.  She wandered

around the cabin and garden.  She kept far from the pool

where Robert Comstock had sunk from sight for she felt

that it would entomb her also if Elnora did not come home

Wednesday morning.  The mother told herself that she would

wait, but the waiting was as bitter as anything she ever had known.

When Elnora awoke Monday another dress was in the hands

of a seamstress and was soon fitted.  It had belonged

to the Angel, and was a soft white thing that with a

little alteration would serve admirably for Commencement

and the ball.  All that day Elnora worked, helping prepare

the auditorium for the exercises, rehearsing the march

and the speech she was to make in behalf of the class. 

The following day was even busier.  But her mind was at

rest, for the dress was a soft delicate lace easy to

change, and the marks of alteration impossible to detect.

The Bird Woman had telephoned to Grand Rapids, explained

the situation and asked the Angel if she might use it. 

The reply had been to give the girl the contents of the chest. 

When the Bird Woman told Elnora, tears filled her eyes.

"I will write at once and thank her," she said.  "With all

her beautiful gowns she does not need them, and I do. 

They will serve for me often, and be much finer than anything

I could afford.  It is lovely of her to give me the dress

and of you to have it altered for me, as I never could."

The Bird Woman laughed.  "I feel religious to-day,"

she said.  "You know the first and greatest rock of my

salvation is `Do unto others.'  I'm only doing to you

what there was no one to do for me when I was a girl

very like you.  Anna tells me your mother was here early

this morning and that she came to see about getting you

a dress."

"She is too late!" said Elnora coldly.  "She had over

a month to prepare my dresses, and I was to pay for them,

so there is no excuse."

"Nevertheless, she is your mother," said the Bird

Woman, softly.  "I think almost any kind of a mother

must be better than none at all, and you say she has had

great trouble."

"She loved my father and he died," said Elnora.  "The same

thing, in quite as tragic a manner, has happened to

thousands of other women, and they have gone on with

calm faces and found happiness in life by loving others. 

There was something else I am afraid I never shall forget;

this I know I shall not, but talking does not help.  I must

deliver my presents and photographs to the crowd.  I have

a picture and I made a present for you, too, if you would

care for them."

"I shall love anything you give me," said the Bird Woman. 

"I know you well enough to know that whatever you do will

be beautiful."

Elnora was pleased over that, and as she tried on her

dress for the last fitting she was really happy.  She was

lovely in the dainty gown: it would serve finely for the ball

and many other like occasions, and it was her very own.

The Bird Woman's driver took Elnora in the carriage and

she called on all the girls with whom she was especially

intimate, and left her picture and the package containing

her gift to them.  By the time she returned parcels for

her were arriving.  Friends seemed to spring from everywhere. 

Almost every one she knew had some gift for her, while

because they so loved her the members of her crowd had

made her beautiful presents.  There were books, vases,

silver pieces, handkerchiefs, fans, boxes of flowers

and candy.  One big package settled the trouble at Sinton's,

for it contained a dainty dress from  Margaret,

a five-dollar gold piece, conspicuously labelled,

"I earned this myself," from Billy, with which to buy

music; and a gorgeous cut-glass perfume bottle, it would

have cost five dollars to fill with even a moderate-

priced scent, from Wesley.

In an expressed crate was a fine curly-maple dressing

table, sent by Freckles.  The drawers were filled with

wonderful toilet articles from the Angel.  The Bird

Woman added an embroidered linen cover and a small

silver vase for a few flowers, so no girl of the class had

finer gifts.  Elnora laid her head on the table sobbing

happily, and the Bird Woman was almost crying herself. 

Professor Henley sent a butterfly book, the grade rooms in

which Elnora had taught gave her a set of volumes covering

every phase of life afield, in the woods, and water. 

Elnora had no time to read so she carried one of these

books around with her hugging it as she went.  After she

had gone to dress a queer-looking package was brought

by a small boy who hopped on one foot as he handed it

in and said:  "Tell Elnora that is from her ma."

"Who are you?" asked the Bird Woman as she took

the bundle.

"I'm Billy!" announced the boy.  "I gave her the five dollars. 

I earned it myself dropping corn, sticking onions, and

pulling weeds.  My, but you got to drop, and stick, and

pull a lot before it's five dollars' worth."

"Would you like to come in and see Elnora's gifts?"

"Yes, ma'am!" said Billy, trying to stand quietly. 

"Gee-mentley!" he gasped.  "Does Elnora get all this?"

"Yes."

"I bet you a thousand dollars I be first in my class

when I graduate.  Say, have the others got a lot more

than Elnora?"

"I think not."

"Well, Uncle Wesley said to find out if I could, and if

she didn't have as much as the rest, he'd buy till she did,

if it took a hundred dollars.  Say, you ought to know him! 

He's just scrumptious!  There ain't anybody any where finer

'an he is.  My, he's grand!"

"I'm very sure of it!" said the Bird Woman.  "I've often

heard Elnora say so."

"I bet you nobody can beat this!" he boasted.  Then he

stopped, thinking deeply.  "I don't know, though,"

he began reflectively.  "Some of them are awful rich;

they got big families to give them things and wagon loads

of friends, and I haven't seen what they have.  Now, maybe

Elnora is getting left, after all!"

"Don't worry, Billy," she said.  "I will watch, and

if I find Elnora is `getting left' I'll buy her some more

things myself.  But I'm sure she is not.  She has more

beautiful gifts now than she will know what to do with, and

others will come.  Tell your Uncle Wesley his girl is

bountifully remembered, very happy, and she sends her

dearest love to all of you.  Now you must go, so I can

help her dress.  You will be there to-night of course?"

"Yes, sir-ee!  She got me a seat, third row from the

front, middle section, so I can see, and she's going to

wink at me, after she gets her speech off her mind. 

She kissed me, too!  She's a perfect lady, Elnora is. 

I'm going to marry her when I am big enough."

"Why isn't that splendid!" laughed the Bird Woman

as she hurried upstairs.

"Dear!" she called.  "Here is another gift for you."

Elnora was half disrobed as she took the package and,

sitting on a couch, opened it.  The Bird Woman bent over

her and tested the fabric with her fingers.

"Why, bless my soul!" she cried.  "Hand-woven, hand-

embroidered linen, fine as silk.  It's priceless' I haven't

seen such things in years.  My mother had garments like

those when I was a child, but my sisters had them cut up

for collars, belts, and fancy waists while I was small. 

Look at the exquisite work!"

"Where could it have come from?" cried Elnora.

She shook out a petticoat, with a hand-wrought ruffle

a foot deep, then an old-fashioned chemise the neck and

sleeve work of which was elaborate and perfectly wrought. 

On the breast was pinned a note that she hastily opened.

"I was married in these," it read, "and I had intended

to be buried in them, but perhaps it would be more sensible

for you to graduate and get married in them yourself, if

you like.  Your mother."

"From my mother!"  Wide-eyed, Elnora looked at

the Bird Woman.  "I never in my life saw the like. 

Mother does things I think I never can forgive, and when

I feel hardest, she turns around and does something that

makes me think she just must love me a little bit, after all. 

Any of the girls would give almost anything to graduate

in hand-embroidered linen like that.  Money can't buy

such things.  And they came when I was thinking she

didn't care what became of me.  Do you suppose she can

be insane?"

"Yes," said the Bird Woman.  "Wildly insane, if she

does not love you and care what becomes of you."

Elnora arose and held the petticoat to her.  "Will you

look at it?" she cried.  "Only imagine her not getting my

dress ready, and then sending me such a petticoat as this! 

Ellen would pay fifty dollars for it and never blink. 

I suppose mother has had it all my life, and I never saw

it before."

"Go take your bath and put on those things," said the

Bird Woman.  "Forget everything and be happy.  She is

not insane.  She is embittered.  She did not understand

how things would be.  When she saw, she came at once to

provide you a dress.  This is her way of saying she is

sorry she did not get the other.  You notice she has not

spent any money, so perhaps she is quite honest in saying

she has none."

"Oh, she is honest!" said Elnora.  "She wouldn't care

enough to tell an untruth.  She'd say just how things were,

no matter what happened."

Soon Elnora was ready for her dress.  She never had

looked so well as when she again headed the processional

across the flower and palm decked stage of the high

school auditorium.  As she sat there she could have

reached over and dropped a rose she carried into the

seat she had occupied that September morning when she

entered the high school.  She spoke the few words she

had to say in behalf of the class beautifully, had the

tiny wink ready for Billy, and the smile and nod of

recognition for Wesley and Margaret.  When at last she

looked into the eyes of a white-faced woman next them,

she slipped a hand to her side and raised her skirt the

fraction of an inch, just enough to let the embroidered

edge of a petticoat show a trifle.  When she saw the look

of relief which flooded her mother's face, Elnora knew

that forgiveness was in her heart, and that she would

go home in the morning.

It was late afternoon before she arrived, and a dray

followed with a load of packages.  Mrs. Comstock was

overwhelmed.  She sat half dazed and made Elnora show

her each costly and beautiful or simple and useful gift,

tell her carefully what it was and from where it came. 

She studied the faces of Elnora's particular friends. 

The gifts from them had to be set in a group.  Several times

she started to speak and then stopped.  At last, between

her dry lips, came a harsh whisper.

"Elnora, what did you give back for these things?"

"I'll show you," said Elnora cheerfully.  "I made the

same gifts for the Bird Woman, Aunt Margaret and you

if you care for it.  But I have to run upstairs to get it."

When she returned she handed her mother an oblong frame,

hand carved, enclosing Elnora's picture, taken by a

schoolmate's camera.  She wore her storm-coat and carried

a dripping umbrella.  From under it looked her bright face;

her books and lunchbox were on her arm, and across the

bottom of the frame was carved, "Your Country Classmate."

Then she offered another frame.

"I am strong on frames," she said.  "They seemed to

be the best I could do without money.  I located the

maple and the black walnut myself, in a little corner that

had been overlooked between the river and the ditch. 

They didn't seem to belong to any one so I just took them. 

Uncle Wesley said it was all right, and he cut and hauled

them for me.  I gave the mill half of each tree for sawing

and curing the remainder.  Then I gave the wood-carver

half of that for making my frames.  A photographer gave

me a lot of spoiled plates, and I boiled off the emulsion, and

took the specimens I framed from my stuff.  The man

said the white frames were worth three and a half, and the

black ones five.  I exchanged those little framed pictures

for the photographs of the others.  For presents, I gave

each one of my crowd one like this, only a different moth. 

The Bird Woman gave me the birch bark.  She got it up

north last summer."

Elnora handed her mother a handsome black-walnut

frame a foot and a half wide by two long.  It finished a

small, shallow glass-covered box of birch bark, to the

bottom of which clung a big night moth with delicate pale

green wings and long exquisite trailers.

"So you see I did not have to be ashamed of my gifts,"

said Elnora.  "I made them myself and raised and

mounted the moths."

"Moth, you call it," said Mrs. Comstock.  "I've seen a

few of the things before."

"They are numerous around us every June night, or at

least they used to be," said Elnora.  "I've sold hundreds

of them, with butterflies, dragonflies, and other specimens. 

Now, I must put away these and get to work, for it is

almost June and there are a few more I want dreadfully. 

If I find them I will be paid some money for which I have

been working."

She was afraid to say college at that time.  She thought it

would be better to wait a few days and see if an opportunity

would not come when it would work in more naturally. 

Besides, unless she could secure the Yellow Emperor she

needed to complete her collection, she could not talk

college until she was of age, for she would have no money.

CHAPTER XII

WHEREIN MARGARET SINTON REVEALS A SECRET,

AND MRS. COMSTOCK POSSESSES THE LIMBERLOST

Elnora, bring me the towel, quick!" cried Mrs Comstock.

"In a minute, mother," mumbled Elnora.

She was standing before the kitchen mirror, tying the

back part of her hair, while the front turned over her face.

"Hurry!  There's a varmint of some kind!"

Elnora ran into the sitting-room and thrust the heavy

kitchen towel into her mother's hand.  Mrs. Comstock

swung open the screen door and struck at some object,

Elnora tossed the hair from her face so that she could see

past her mother.  The girl screamed wildly.

"Don't! Mother, don't!"

Mrs. Comstock struck again.  Elnora caught her arm. 

"It's the one I want!  It's worth a lot of money! 

Don't!  Oh, you shall not!"

"Shan't, missy?" blazed Mrs. Comstock.  "When did

you get to bossing me?"

The hand that held the screen swept a half-circle and

stopped at Elnora's cheek.  She staggered with the blow,

and across her face, paled with excitement, a red mark

arose rapidly.  The screen slammed shut, throwing the

creature on the floor before them.  Instantly Mrs.

Comstock crushed it with her foot.  Elnora stepped back. 

Excepting the red mark, her face was very white.

"That was the last moth I needed," she said, "to complete

a collection worth three hundred dollars.  You've ruined

it before my eyes!"

"Moth!" cried Mrs. Comstock.  "You say that because

you are mad.  Moths have big wings.  I know a moth!"

"I've kept things from you," said Elnora, "because I

didn't dare confide in you.  You had no sympathy with me. 

But you know I never told you untruths in all my life."

"It's no moth!" reiterated Mrs. Comstock.

"It is!" cried Elnora.  "It's from a case in the ground. 

Its wings take two or three hours to expand and harden."

"If I had known it was a moth----" Mrs. Comstock wavered.

"You did know!  I told you!  I begged you to stop! 

It meant just three hundred dollars to me."

"Bah!  Three hundred fiddlesticks!"

"They are what have paid for books, tuition, and clothes

for the past four years.  They are what I could have

started on to college.  You've ruined the very one I needed. 

You never made any pretence of loving me.  At last I'll

be equally frank with you.  I hate you!  You are a selfish,

wicked woman!  I hate you!"

Elnora turned, went through the kitchen and from the

back door.  She followed the garden path to the gate and

walked toward the swamp a short distance when reaction

overtook her.  She dropped on the ground and leaned

against a big log.  When a little child, desperate as now,

she had tried to die by holding her breath.  She had

thought in that way to make her mother sorry, but she had

learned that life was a thing thrust upon her and she could

not leave it at her wish.

She was so stunned over the loss of that moth, which

she had childishly named the Yellow Emperor, that she

scarcely remembered the blow.  She had thought no luck

in all the world would be so rare as to complete her

collection; now she had been forced to see a splendid

Imperialis destroyed before her.  There was a possibility

that she could find another, but she was facing the

certainty that the one she might have had and with which she

undoubtedly could have attracted others, was spoiled by

her mother.  How long she sat there Elnora did not know

or care.  She simply suffered in dumb, abject misery, an

occasional dry sob shaking her.  Aunt Margaret was right. 

Elnora felt that morning that her mother never would be

any different.  The girl had reached the place where she

realized that she could endure it no longer.

As Elnora left the room, Mrs. Comstock took one step

after her.

"You little huzzy!" she gasped.

But Elnora was gone.  Her mother stood staring.

"She never did lie to me," she muttered.  "I guess

it was a moth.  And the only one she needed to get three

hundred dollars, she said.  I wish I hadn't been so fast! 

I never saw anything like it.  I thought it was some

deadly, stinging, biting thing.  A body does have to be

mighty careful here.  But likely I've spilt the milk now.

Pshaw!  She can find another!  There's no use to be foolish. 

Maybe moths are like snakes, where there's one, there are two."

Mrs. Comstock took the broom and swept the moth out

of the door.  Then she got down on her knees and

carefully examined the steps, logs and the earth of the

flower beds at each side.  She found the place where

the creature had emerged from the ground, and the hard,

dark-brown case which had enclosed it, still wet inside. 

Then she knew Elnora had been right.  It was a moth. 

Its wings had been damp and not expanded.  Mrs. Comstock

never before had seen one in that state, and she

did not know how they originated.  She had thought all

of them came from cases spun on trees or against walls

or boards.  She had seen only enough to know that there

were such things; as a flash of white told her that an ermine

was on her premises, or a sharp "buzzzzz" warned her

of a rattler.

So it was from creatures like that Elnora had secured

her school money.  In one sickening sweep there rushed

into the heart of the woman a full realization of the

width of the gulf that separated her from her child. 

Lately many things had pointed toward it, none more plainly

than when Elnora, like a reincarnation of her father, had

stood fearlessly before a large city audience and played

with even greater skill than he, on what Mrs. Comstock

felt very certain was his violin.  But that little crawling

creature of earth, crushed by her before its splendid yellow

and lavender wings could spread and carry it into the

mystery of night, had performed a miracle.

"We are nearer strangers to each other than we are with

any of the neighbours," she muttered.

So one of the Almighty's most delicate and beautiful

creations was sacrificed without fulfilling the law, yet

none of its species ever served so glorious a cause, for

at last Mrs. Comstock's inner vision had cleared.  She went

through the cabin mechanically.  Every few minutes

she glanced toward the back walk to see if Elnora

were coming.  She knew arrangements had been made with

Margaret to go to the city some time that day, so she

grew more nervous and uneasy every moment.  She was

haunted by the fear that the blow might discolour

Elnora's cheek; that she would tell Margaret.  She went

down the back walk, looking intently in all directions,

left the garden and followed the swamp path.  Her step

was noiseless on the soft, black earth, and soon she

came close enough to see Elnora.  Mrs. Comstock stood

looking at the girl in troubled uncertainty.  Not knowing

what to say, at last she turned and went back to the cabin.

Noon came and she prepared dinner, calling, as she

always did, when Elnora was in the garden, but she got

no response, and the girl did not come.  A little after

one o'clock Margaret stopped at the gate.

"Elnora has changed her mind.  She is not going,"

called Mrs. Comstock.

She felt that she hated Margaret as she hitched her

horse and came up the walk instead of driving on.

"You must be mistaken," said Margaret.  "I was

going on purpose for her.  She asked me to take her. 

I had no errand.  Where is she?"

"I will call her," said Mrs. Comstock.

She followed the path again, and this time found Elnora

sitting on the log.  Her face was swollen and discoloured,

and her eyes red with crying.  She paid no attention

to her mother.

"Mag Sinton is here," said Mrs. Comstock harshly. 

"I told her you had changed your mind, but she said

you asked her to go with you, and she had nothing to

go for herself."

Elnora arose, recklessly waded through the deep swamp

grasses and so reached the path ahead of her mother. 

Mrs. Comstock followed as far as the garden, but she

could not enter the cabin.  She busied herself among

the vegetables, barely looking up when the back-door

screen slammed noisily.  Margaret Sinton approached

colourless, her eyes so angry that Mrs. Comstock shrank back.

"What's the matter with Elnora's face?" demanded Margaret.

Mrs. Comstock made no reply.

"You struck her, did you?"

"I thought you wasn't blind!"

"I have been, for twenty long years now, Kate Comstock,"

said Margaret Sinton, "but my eyes are open at last. 

What I see is that I've done you no good and Elnora a

big wrong.  I had an idea that it would kill you to know,

but I guess you are tough enough to stand anything. 

Kill or cure, you get it now!"

"What are you frothing about?" coolly asked Mrs. Comstock.

"You!" cried Margaret.  "You!  The woman who doesn't

pretend to love her only child.  Who lets her grow to

a woman, as you have let Elnora, and can't be satisfied

with every sort of neglect, but must add abuse yet;

and all for a fool idea about a man who wasn't worth

his salt!"

Mrs. Comstock picked up a hoe.

"Go right on!" she said.  "Empty yourself.  It's the

last thing you'll ever do!"

"Then I'll make a tidy job of it," said Margaret. 

"You'll not touch me.  You'll stand there and hear

the truth at last, and because I dare face you and tell

it, you will know in your soul it is truth.  When Robert

Comstock shaved that quagmire out there so close he

went in, he wanted to keep you from knowing where he

was coming from.  He'd been to see Elvira Carney. 

They had plans to go to a dance that night----"

"Close your lips!" said Mrs. Comstock in a voice of

deadly quiet.

"You know I wouldn't dare open them if I wasn't

telling you the truth.  I can prove what I say.  I was

coming from Reeds.  It was hot in the woods and I

stopped at Carney's as I passed for a drink. 

Elvira's bedridden old mother heard me, and she was so

crazy for some one to talk with, I stepped in a minute. 

I saw Robert come down the path.  Elvira saw him, too, so

she ran out of the house to head him off.  It looked funny,

and I just deliberately moved where I could see and hear.

He brought her his violin, and told her to get ready and

meet him in the woods with it that night, and they would

go to a dance.  She took it and hid it in the loft to the

well-house and promised she'd go."

"Are you done?" demanded Mrs. Comstock.

"No.  I am going to tell you the whole story.  You don't

spare Elnora anything.  I shan't spare you.  I hadn't

been here that day, but I can tell you just how he was

dressed, which way he went and every word they said,

though they thought I was busy with her mother

and wouldn't notice them.  Put down your hoe, Kate. 

I went to Elvira, told her what I knew and made her give

me Comstock's violin for Elnora over three years ago. 

She's been playing it ever since.  I won't see her

slighted and abused another day on account of a man

who would have broken your heart if he had lived. 

Six months more would have showed you what everybody

else knew.  He was one of those men who couldn't trust

himself, and so no woman was safe with him.  Now, will

you drop grieving over him, and do Elnora justice?"

Mrs. Comstock grasped the hoe tighter and turning she

went down the walk, and started across the woods to the

home of Elvira Carney.  With averted head she passed

the pool, steadily pursuing her way.  Elvira Carney,

hanging towels across the back fence, saw her coming

and went toward the gate to meet her.  Twenty years

she had dreaded that visit.  Since Margaret Sinton

had compelled her to produce the violin she had hidden

so long, because she was afraid to destroy it, she had

come closer expectation than dread.  The wages of sin

are the hardest debts on earth to pay, and they are always

collected at inconvenient times and unexpected places.

Mrs. Comstock's face and hair were so white, that her

dark eyes seemed burned into their setting.  Silently she

stared at the woman before her a long time.

"I might have saved myself the trouble of coming,"

she said at last, "I see you are guilty as sin!"

"What has Mag Sinton been telling you?" panted the

miserable woman, gripping the fence.

"The truth!" answered Mrs. Comstock succinctly. 

"Guilt is in every line of your face, in your eyes, all over

your wretched body.  If I'd taken a good look at you

any time in all these past years, no doubt I could have

seen it just as plain as I can now.  No woman or man

can do what you've done, and not get a mark set on them

for every one to read."

"Mercy!" gasped weak little Elvira Carney.  "Have mercy!"

"Mercy?" scoffed Mrs. Comstock.  "Mercy!  That's a

nice word from you!  How much mercy did you have

on me?  Where's the mercy that sent Comstock to the

slime of the bottomless quagmire, and left me to see it,

and then struggle on in agony all these years? 

How about the mercy of letting me neglect my baby all

the days of her life?  Mercy!  Do you really dare use

the word to me?"

"If you  knew what I've suffered!"

"Suffered?" jeered Mrs. Comstock.  "That's interesting. 

And pray, what have you suffered?"

"All the neighbours have suspected and been down

on me.  I ain't had a friend.  I've always felt guilty

of his death!  I've seen him go down a thousand times,

plain as ever you did.  Many's the night I've stood on the

other bank of that pool and listened to you, and I tried

to throw myself in to keep from hearing you, but I

didn't dare.  I knew God would send me to burn forever,

but I'd better done it; for now, He has set the burning

on my body, and every hour it is slowly eating the life

out of me. The doctor says it's a cancer----"

Mrs. Comstock exhaled a long breath.  Her grip on the

hoe relaxed and her stature lifted to towering height.

"I didn't know, or care, when I came here, just what I

did," she said.  "But my way is beginning to clear.  If the

guilt of your soul has come to a head, in a cancer on

your body, it looks as if the Almighty didn't need any of

my help in meting out His punishments.  I really couldn't

fix up anything to come anywhere near that.  If you are

going to burn until your life goes out with that sort of fire,

you don't owe me anything!"

"Oh, Katharine Comstock!" groaned Elvira Carney,

clinging to the fence for support.

"Looks as if the Bible is right when it says, `The wages

of sin is death,' doesn't it?" asked Mrs. Comstock. 

"Instead of doing a woman's work in life, you chose the

smile of invitation, and the dress of unearned cloth. 

Now you tell me you are marked to burn to death with the

unquenchable fire.  And him!  It was shorter with him, but

let me tell you he got his share!  He left me with an

untruth on his lips, for he told me he was going to take

his violin to Onabasha for a new key, when he carried it

to you.  Every vow of love and constancy he ever made me

was a lie, after he touched your lips, so when he tried

the wrong side of the quagmire, to hide from me the

direction in which he was coming, it reached out for him,

and it got him.  It didn't hurry, either!  It sucked him

down, slow and deliberate."

"Mercy!" groaned Elvira Carney.  "Mercy!"

"I don't know the word," said Mrs. Comstock.  "You took

all that out of me long ago.  The past twenty years

haven't been of the sort that taught mercy.  I've never

had any on myself and none on my child.  Why in the

name of justice, should I have mercy on you, or on him? 

You were both older than I, both strong, sane people, you

deliberately chose your course when you lured him, and he,

when he was unfaithful to me.  When a Loose Man and a

Light Woman face the end the Almighty ordained for

them, why should they shout at me for mercy?  What did

I have to do with it?"

Elvira Carney sobbed in panting gasps.

"You've got tears, have you?" marvelled Mrs. Comstock. 

"Mine all dried long ago.  I've none left to shed

over my wasted life, my disfigured face and hair, my years

of struggle with a man's work, my wreck of land among the

tilled fields of my neighbours, or the final knowledge that

the man I so gladly would have died to save, wasn't worth

the sacrifice of a rattlesnake.  If anything yet could wring

a tear from me, it would be the thought of the awful

injustice I always have done my girl.  If I'd lay hand on

you for anything, it would be for that."

"Kill me if you want to," sobbed Elvira Carney.  "I know

that I deserve it, and I don't care."

"You are getting your killing fast enough to suit me,"

said Mrs. Comstock.  "I wouldn't touch you, any more

than I would him, if I could.  Once is all any man or

woman deceives me about the holiest things of life. 

I wouldn't touch you any more than I would the

black plague.  I am going back to my girl."

Mrs. Comstock turned and started swiftly through the woods,

but she had gone only a few rods when she stopped, and

leaning on the hoe, she stood thinking deeply.  Then she

turned back.  Elvira still clung to the fence, sobbing bitterly.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Comstock, "but I left a

wrong impression with you.  I don't want you to think

that I believe the Almighty set a cancer to burning you as

a punishment for your sins.  I don't!  I think a lot

more of the Almighty.  With a whole sky-full of worlds on

His hands to manage, I'm not believing that He has time

to look down on ours, and pick you out of all the millions

of us sinners, and set a special kind of torture to eating you. 

It wouldn't be a gentlemanly thing to do, and first

of all, the Almighty is bound to be a gentleman.  I think

likely a bruise and bad blood is what caused your trouble. 

Anyway, I've got to tell you that the cleanest housekeeper

I ever knew, and one of the noblest Christian women, was

slowly eaten up by a cancer.  She got hers from the careless

work of a poor doctor.  The Almighty is to forgive sin

and heal disease, not to invent and spread it."

She had gone only a few steps when she again turned back.

"If you will gather a lot of red clover bloom, make a tea

strong as lye of it, and drink quarts, I think likely it will

help you, if you are not too far gone.  Anyway, it will cool

your blood and make the burning easier to bear."

Then she swiftly went home.  Enter the lonely cabin

she could not, neither could she sit outside and think. 

She attacked a bed of beets and hoed until the perspiration

ran from her face and body, then she began on the potatoes. 

When she was too tired to take another stroke she

bathed and put on dry clothing.  In securing her dress she

noticed her husband's carefully preserved clothing lining

one wall.  She gathered it in an armload and carried it to

the swamp.  Piece by piece she pitched into the green

maw of the quagmire all those articles she had dusted

carefully and fought moths from for years, and stood

watching as it slowly sucked them down.  She went back

to her room and gathered every scrap that had in any way

belonged to Robert Comstock, excepting his gun and revolver,

and threw it into the swamp.  Then for the first time she

set her door wide open.

She was too weary now to do more, but an urging unrest

drove her.  She wanted Elnora.  It seemed to her she

never could wait until the girl came and delivered

her judgment.  At last in an effort to get nearer to

her, Mrs. Comstock climbed the stairs and stood looking

around Elnora's room.  It was very unfamiliar.  The pictures

were strange to her.  Commencement had filled it with

packages and bundles.  The walls were covered with

cocoons; moths and dragonflies were pinned everywhere. 

Under the bed she could see half a dozen large white boxes. 

She pulled out one and lifted the lid.  The bottom was

covered with a sheet of thin cork, and on long pins sticking

in it were large, velvet-winged moths.  Each one was

labelled, always there were two of a kind, in many cases

four, showing under and upper wings of both male and female. 

They were of every colour and shape.

Mrs. Comstock caught her breath sharply.  When and

where had Elnora found them?  They were the most

exquisite sight the woman ever had seen, so she opened all

the boxes to feast on their beautiful contents.  As she did

so there came more fully a sense of the distance between

her and her child.  She could not understand how Elnora

had gone to school, and performed so much work secretly. 

When it was finished, to the last moth, she, the mother

who should have been the first confidant and helper, had

been the one to bring disappointment.  Small wonder Elnora

had come to hate her.

Mrs. Comstock carefully closed and replaced the boxes;

and again stood looking around the room.  This time her

eyes rested on some books she did not remember having

seen before, so she picked up one and found that it was a

moth book.  She glanced over the first pages and was soon

eagerly reading.  When the text reached the classification

of species, she laid it down, took up another and read the

introductory chapters.  By that time her brain was in a

confused jumble of ideas about capturing moths with

differing baits and bright lights.

She went down stairs thinking deeply.  Being unable to

sit still and having nothing else to do she glanced at the

clock and began preparing supper.  The work dragged. 

A chicken was snatched up and dressed hurriedly.  A spice

cake sprang into being.  Strawberries that had been

intended for preserves went into shortcake.  Delicious odours

crept from the cabin.  She put many extra touches

on the table and then commenced watching the road. 

Everything was ready, but Elnora did not come.  Then began

the anxious process of trying to keep cooked food warm

and not spoil it.  The birds went to bed and dusk came. 

Mrs. Comstock gave up the fire and set the supper

on the table.  Then she went out and sat on the front-door

step watching night creep around her.  She started eagerly

as the gate creaked, but it was only Wesley Sinton coming.

"Katharine, Margaret and Elnora passed where I was

working this afternoon, and Margaret got out of the

carriage and called me to the fence.  She told me what she

had done.  I've come to say to you that I am sorry.  She has

heard me threaten to do it a good many times, but I

never would have got it done.  I'd give a good deal if I

could undo it, but I can't, so I've come to tell you how

sorry I am."

"You've got something to be sorry for," said Mrs. Comstock,

"but likely we ain't thinking of the same thing.  It hurts

me less to know the truth, than to live in ignorance. 

If Mag had the sense of a pewee, she'd told me long ago. 

That's what hurts me, to think that both of you knew

Robert was not worth an hour of honest grief, yet you'd let

me mourn him all these years and neglect Elnora while I

did it.  If I have anything to forgive you, that is what it is."

Wesley removed his hat and sat on a bench.

"Katharine," he said solemnly, "nobody ever knows how

to take you."

"Would it be asking too much to take me for having a few

grains of plain common sense?" she inquired.  "You've known

all this time that Comstock got what he deserved,

when he undertook to sneak in an unused way across a

swamp, with which he was none too familiar.  Now I

should have thought that you'd figure that knowing the

same thing would be the best method to cure me of pining

for him, and slighting my child."

"Heaven only knows we have thought of that, and

talked of it often, but we were both too big cowards. 

We didn't dare tell you."

"So you have gone on year after year, watching me

show indifference to Elnora, and yet a little  horse-sense

would have pointed out to you that she was my salvation.

Why look at it!  Not married quite a year.  All his vows

of love and fidelity made to me before the Almighty

forgotten in a few months, and a dance and a Light Woman so

alluring he had to lie and sneak for them.  What kind of a

prospect is that for a life?  I know men and women. 

An honourable man is an honourable man, and a liar is a liar;

both are born and not made.  One cannot change to the

other any more than that same old leopard can change

its spots.  After a man tells a woman the first untruth

of that sort, the others come piling thick, fast, and

mountain high.  The desolation they bring in their wake

overshadows anything I have suffered completely.  If he

had lived six months more I should have known him for what

he was born to be.  It was in the blood of him.  His father

and grandfather before him were fiddling, dancing people; but

I was certain of him.  I thought we could leave Ohio and

come out here alone, and I could so love him and interest

him in his work, that he would be a man.  Of all the fool,

fruitless jobs, making anything of a creature that begins

by deceiving her, is the foolest a sane woman ever undertook. 

I am more than sorry you and Margaret didn't see your way

clear to tell me long ago.  I'd have found it out in a

few more months if he had lived, and I wouldn't have

borne it a day.  The man who breaks his vows to me once,

doesn't get the second chance.  I give truth and honour. 

I have a right to ask it in return.  I am glad I understand

at last.  Now, if Elnora will forgive me, we will take a new

start and see what we can make out of what is left of life. 

If she won't, then it will be my time to learn what suffering

really means."

"But she will," said Wesley.  "She must!  She can't

help it when things are explained."

"I notice she isn't hurrying any about coming home. 

Do you know where she is or what she is doing?"

"I do not.  But likely she will be along soon.  I must

go help Billy with the night work.  Good-bye, Katharine. 

Thank the Lord you have come to yourself at last!"

They shook hands and Wesley went down the road while

Mrs. Comstock entered the cabin.  She could not swallow food. 

She stood in the back door watching the sky for moths,

but they did not seem to be very numerous.  Her spirits

sank and she breathed unevenly.  Then she heard the

front screen.  She reached the middle door as Elnora

touched the foot of the stairs.

"Hurry, and get ready, Elnora," she said.  "Your supper

is almost spoiled now."

Elnora closed the stair door behind her, and for the first

time in her life, threw the heavy lever which barred out

anyone from down stairs.  Mrs. Comstock heard the thud,

and knew what it meant.  She reeled slightly and caught

the doorpost for support.  For a few minutes she clung

there, then sank to the nearest chair.  After a long time

she arose and stumbling half blindly, she put the food in

the cupboard and covered the table.  She took the lamp

in one hand, the butter in the other, and started to the

spring house.  Something brushed close by her face, and she

looked just in time to see a winged creature rise above the

cabin and sail away.

"That was a night bird," she muttered.  As she stopped

to set the butter in the water, came another thought. 

"Perhaps it was a moth!"  Mrs. Comstock dropped the

butter and hurried out with the lamp; she held it high

above her head and waited until her arms ached. 

Small insects of night gathered, and at last a little

dusty miller, but nothing came of any size.

"I must go where they are, if I get them," muttered

Mrs. Comstock.

She went to the barn after the stout pair of high boots

she used in feeding stock in deep snow.  Throwing these

beside the back door she climbed to the loft over the spring

house, and hunted an old lard oil lantern and one of first

manufacture for oil.  Both these she cleaned and filled. 

She listened until everything up stairs had been still for

over half an hour.  By that time it was past eleven o'clock. 

Then she took the lantern from the kitchen, the two old

ones, a handful of matches, a ball of twine, and went from

the cabin, softly closing the door.

Sitting on the back steps, she put on the boots, and then

stood gazing into the perfumed June night, first in the

direction of the woods on her land, then toward the Limberlost. 

Its outline was so dark and forbidding she shuddered

and went down the garden, following the path toward the

woods, but as she neared the pool her knees wavered and

her courage fled.  The knowledge that in her soul she was

now glad Robert Comstock was at the bottom of it made a

coward of her, who fearlessly had mourned him there,

nights untold.  She could not go on.  She skirted the

back of the garden, crossed a field, and came out on

the road.  Soon she reached the Limberlost.  She hunted

until she found the old trail, then followed it stumbling

over logs and through clinging vines and grasses. 

The heavy boots clumped on her feet, overhanging branches

whipped her face and pulled her hair.  But her eyes were

on the sky as she went straining into the night, hoping to

find signs of a living creature on wing.

By and by she began to see the wavering flight of something

she thought near the right size.  She had no idea

where she was, but she stopped, lighted a lantern and

hung it as high as she could reach.  A little distance away

she placed the second and then the third.  The objects

came nearer and sick with disappointment she saw that

they were bats.  Crouching in the damp swamp grasses,

without a thought of snakes or venomous insects, she

waited, her eyes roving from lantern to lantern.  Once she

thought a creature of high flight dropped near the lard oil

light, so she arose breathlessly waiting, but either it

passed or it was an illusion.  She glanced at the old lantern,

then at the new, and was on her feet in an instant creeping close. 

Something large as a small bird was fluttering around. 

Mrs. Comstock began to perspire, while her hand shook wildly. 

Closer she crept and just as she reached for it, something

similar swept past and both flew away together.

Mrs. Comstock set her teeth and stood shivering.  For a

long time the locusts rasped, the whip-poor-wills cried and

a steady hum of night life throbbed in her ears.  Away in

the sky she saw something coming when it was no larger

than a falling leaf.  Straight toward the light it flew. 

Mrs. Comstock began to pray aloud.

"This way, O Lord!  Make it come this way!  Please!

O Lord, send it lower!"

The moth hesitated at the first light, then slowly,

easily it came toward the second, as if following a path

of air.  It touched a leaf near the lantern and settled. 

As Mrs. Comstock reached for it a thin yellow spray wet

her hand and the surrounding leaves.  When its wings

raised above its back, her fingers came together. 

She held the moth to the light.  It was nearer brown than

yellow, and she remembered having seen some like it in

the boxes that afternoon.  It was not the one needed to

complete the collection, but Elnora might want it, so

Mrs. Comstock held on.  Then the Almighty was kind,

or nature was sufficient, as you look at it, for following

the law of its being when disturbed, the moth again threw

the spray by which some suppose it attracts its kind,

and liberally sprinkled Mrs. Comstock's dress front

and arms.  From that instant, she became the best moth

bait ever invented.  Every Polyphemus in range hastened

to her, and other fluttering creatures of night followed. 

The influx came her way.  She snatched wildly here and

there until she had one in each hand and no place to

put them.  She could see more coming, and her aching

heart, swollen with the strain of long excitement,

hurt pitifully.  She prayed in broken exclamations that

did not always sound reverent, but never was human soul

in more intense earnest.

Moths were coming.  She had one in each hand. 

They were not yellow, and she did not know what to do. 

She glanced around to try to discover some way to keep

what she had, and her throbbing heart stopped and

every muscle stiffened.  There was the dim outline of

a crouching figure not two yards away, and a pair of

eyes their owner thought hidden, caught the light in a

cold stream.  Her first impulse was to scream and fly

for life.  Before her lips could open a big moth alighted

on her breast while she felt another walking over her hair. 

All sense of caution deserted her.  She did not care to

live if she could not replace the yellow moth she had killed. 

She turned her eyes to those among the leaves.

"Here, you!" she cried hoarsely.  "I need you!  Get yourself

out here, and help me.  These critters are going to get away

from me.  Hustle!"

Pete Corson parted the bushes and stepped into the light.

"Oh, it's  you!" said Mrs. Comstock.  "I might have known! 

But you gave me a start.  Here, hold these until I make some

sort of bag for them.  Go easy!  If you break them I don't

guarantee what will happen to you!"

"Pretty fierce, ain't you!" laughed Pete, but he advanced

and held out his hands.  "For Elnora, I s'pose?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Comstock.  "In a mad fit, I trampled

one this morning, and by the luck of the old boy himself

it was the last moth she needed to complete a collection. 

I got to get another one or die."

"Then I guess it's your funeral," said Pete.  "There ain't

a chance in a dozen the right one will come.  What colour

was it?"

"Yellow, and big as a bird."

"The Emperor, likely," said Pete.  "You dig for

that kind, and they are not numerous, so's 'at you can

smash 'em for fun."

"Well, I can try to get one, anyway," said Mrs. Comstock. 

"I forgot all about bringing anything to put them in. 

You take a pinch on their wings until I make a poke."

Mrs. Comstock removed her apron, tearing off the strings. 

She unfastened and stepped from the skirt of her

calico dress.  With one apron string she tied shut the

band and placket.  She pulled a wire pin from her hair,

stuck it through the other string, and using it as a bodkin

ran it around the hem of her skirt, so shortly she had a

large bag.  She put several branches inside to which the

moths could cling, closed the mouth partially and held

it toward Pete.

"Put your hand well down and let the things go!" she ordered. 

"But be careful, man!  Don't run into the twigs!  Easy! 

That's one.  Now the other.  Is the one on my head gone? 

There was one on my dress, but I guess it flew.  Here comes

a kind of a gray-looking one."

Pete slipped several more moths into the bag.

"Now, that's five, Mrs. Comstock," he said.  "I'm sorry,

but you'll have to make that do.  You must get out of

here lively.  Your lights will be taken for hurry

calls, and inside the next hour a couple of men will ride

here like fury.  They won't be nice Sunday-school men,

and they won't hold bags and catch moths for you. 

You must go quick!"

Mrs. Comstock laid down the bag and pulled one of

the lanterns lower.

"I won't budge a step," she said.  "This land doesn't

belong to you.  You have no right to order me off it. 

Here I stay until I get a Yellow Emperor, and no little

petering thieves of this neighbourhood can scare me away."

"You don't understand," said Pete.  "I'm willing to

help Elnora, and I'd take care of you, if I could, but

there will be too many for me, and they will be mad at

being called out for nothing."

"Well, who's calling them out?" demanded Mrs. Comstock. 

"I'm catching moths.  If a lot of good-for-nothings get

fooled into losing some sleep, why let them, they can't

hurt me, or stop my work."

"They can, and they'll do both."

"Well, I'll see them do it!" said Mrs. Comstock.  "I've got

Robert's revolver in my dress, and I can shoot as straight

as any man, if I'm mad enough.  Any one who interferes

with me to-night will find me mad a-plenty.  There goes another!"

She stepped into the light and waited until a big brown

moth settled on her and was easily taken.  Then in light,

airy flight came a delicate pale green thing, and Mrs.

Comstock started in pursuit.  But the scent was not right. 

The moth fluttered high, then dropped lower, still lower,

and sailed away.  With outstretched hands Mrs. Comstock

pursued it.  She hurried one way and another, then ran

over an object which tripped her and she fell. 

She regained her feet in an instant, but she had lost sight

of the moth.  With livid face she turned to the crouching man.

"You nasty, sneaking son of Satan!" she cried.  "Why are

you hiding there?  You made me lose the one I wanted

most of any I've had a chance at yet.  Get out of here! 

Go this minute, or I'll fill your worthless carcass so full

of holes you'll do to sift cornmeal.  Go, I say!  I'm using

the Limberlost to-night, and I won't be stopped by the

devil himself!  Cut like fury, and tell the rest of them

they can just go home.  Pete is going to help me, and

he is all of you I need.  Now go!"

The man turned and went.  Pete leaned against a tree,

held his mouth shut and shook inwardly.  Mrs. Comstock

came back panting.

"The old scoundrel made me lose that!" she said.  "If any

one else comes snooping around here I'll just blow them

up to start with.  I haven't time to talk.  Suppose that

had been yellow!  I'd have killed that man, sure!

The Limberlost isn't safe to-night, and the sooner those

whelps find it out, the better it will be for them."

Pete stopped laughing to look at her.  He saw that

she was speaking the truth.  She was quite past reason,

sense, or fear.  The soft night air stirred the wet hair

around her temples, the flickering lanterns made her face

a ghastly green.  She would stop at nothing, that was evident. 

Pete suddenly began catching moths with exemplary industry. 

In putting one into the bag, another escaped.

"We must not try that again," said Mrs. Comstock. 

"Now, what will we do?"

"We are close to the old case," said Pete.  "I think

I can get into it.  Maybe we could slip the rest in there."

"That's a fine idea!" said Mrs. Comstock.  "They'll have

so much room there they won't be likely to hurt

themselves, and the books say they don't fly in daytime

unless they are disturbed, so they will settle when it's

light, and I can come with Elnora to get them."

They captured two more, and then Pete carried them

to the case.

"Here comes a big one!" he cried as he returned.

Mrs. Comstock looked up and stepped out with a prayer

on her lips.  She could not tell the colour at that

distance, but the moth appeared different from the others. 

On it came, dropping lower and darting from light to light. 

As it swept near her, "O Heavenly Father!" exulted Mrs.

Comstock, "it's yellow!  Careful Pete!  Your hat, maybe!"

Pete made a long sweep.  The moth wavered above

the hat and sailed away.  Mrs. Comstock leaned against

a tree and covered her face with her shaking hands.

"That is my punishment!" she cried.  "Oh, Lord, if

you will give a moth like that into my possession, I'll

always be a better woman!"

The Emperor again came in sight.  Pete stood tense

and ready.  Mrs. Comstock stepped into the light and

watched the moth's course.  Then a second appeared

in pursuit of the first.  The larger one wavered into

the radius of light once more.  The perspiration rolled

down the man's face.  He half lifted the hat.

"Pray, woman!  Pray now!" he panted.

"I guess I best get over by that lard oil light and go

to work," breathed Mrs. Comstock.  "The Lord knows

this is all in prayer, but it's no time for words just now. 

Ready, Pete!  You are going to get a chance first!"

Pete made another long, steady sweep, but the moth

darted beneath the hat.  In its flight it came straight

toward Mrs. Comstock.  She snatched off the remnant

of apron she had tucked into her petticoat band and

held the calico before her.  The moth struck full against

it and clung to the goods.  Pete crept up stealthily. 

The second moth followed the first, and the spray

showered the apron.

"Wait!" gasped Mrs. Comstock.  "I think they have settled. 

The books say they won't leave now."

The big pale yellow creature clung firmly, lowering

and raising its wings.  The other came nearer.  Mrs.

Comstock held the cloth with rigid hands, while Pete

could hear her breathing in short gusts.

"Shall I try now?" he implored.

"Wait!" whispered the woman.  "Something seems to

say wait!"

The night breeze stiffened and gently waved the apron. 

Locusts rasped, mosquitoes hummed and frogs sang uninterruptedly. 

A musky odour slowly filled the air.

"Now shall I?" questioned Pete.

"No.  Leave them alone.  They are safe now.  They are mine. 

They are my salvation.  God and the Limberlost gave them

to me!  They won't move for hours.  The books all say so. 

O Heavenly Father, I am thankful to You, and you, too,

Pete Corson!  You are a good man to help me.  Now, I can

go home and face my girl."

Instead, Mrs. Comstock dropped suddenly.  She spread

the apron across her knees.  The moths remained undisturbed. 

Then her tired white head dropped, the tears she had thought

forever dried gushed forth, and she sobbed for pure joy.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that now, you know!" comforted Pete. 

"Think of getting two!  That's more than you ever could

have expected.  A body would think you would cry, if you

hadn't got any.  Come on, now.  It's almost morning. 

Let me help you home."

Pete took the bag and the two old lanterns.  Mrs. Comstock

carried her moths and the best lantern and went ahead to

light the way.

Elnora had sat beside her window far into the night. 

At last she undressed and went to bed, but sleep would

not come.  She had gone to the city to talk with members of

the School Board about a room in the grades.  There was

a possibility that she might secure the moth, and so be able

to start to college that fall, but if she did not, then she

wanted the school.  She had been given some encouragement,

but she was so unhappy that nothing mattered.  She could

not see the way open to anything in life, save a long

series of disappointments, while she remained with

her mother.  Yet Margaret Sinton had advised her to go

home and try once more.  Margaret had seemed so sure

there would be a change for the better, that Elnora had

consented, although she had no hope herself.  So strong is

the bond of blood, she could not make up her mind to seek

a home elsewhere, even after the day that had passed. 

Unable to sleep she arose at last, and the room being warm,

she sat on the floor close the window.  The lights in the

swamp caught her eye.  She was very uneasy, for quite a

hundred of her best moths were in the case.  However, there

was no money, and no one ever had touched a book or any

of her apparatus.  Watching the lights set her thinking,

and before she realized it, she was in a panic of fear.

She hurried down the stairway softly calling her mother. 

There was no answer.  She lightly stepped across the

sitting-room and looked in at the open door.  There was

no one, and the bed had not been used.  Her first thought

was that her mother had gone to the pool; and the Limberlost

was alive with signals.  Pity and fear mingled in the

heart of the girl.  She opened the kitchen door, crossed the

garden and ran back to the swamp.  As she neared it she

listened, but she could hear only the usual voices of night.

"Mother!" she called softly.  Then louder, "Mother!"

There was not a sound.  Chilled with fright she hurried

back to the cabin.  She did not know what to do. 

She understood what the lights in the Limberlost meant. 

Where was her mother?  She was afraid to enter, while

she was growing very cold and still more fearful about

remaining outside.  At last she went to her mother's room,

picked up the gun, carried it into the kitchen, and crowding

in a little corner behind the stove, she waited in trembling

anxiety.  The time was dreadfully long before she heard

her mother's voice.  Then she decided some one had been

ill and sent for her, so she took courage, and stepping

swiftly across the kitchen she unbarred the door and drew

back from sight beside the table.

Mrs. Comstock entered dragging her heavy feet.  Her dress

skirt was gone, her petticoat wet and drabbled, and

the waist of her dress was almost torn from her body. 

Her hair hung in damp strings; her eyes were red with crying. 

In one hand she held the lantern, and in the other stiffly

extended before her, on a wad of calico reposed a

magnificent pair of Yellow Emperors.  Elnora stared, her

lips parted.

"Shall I put these others in the kitchen?" inquired a

man's voice.

The girl shrank back to the shadows.

"Yes, anywhere inside the door," replied Mrs. Comstock

as she moved a few steps to make way for him. 

Pete's head appeared.  He set down the moths and was gone.

"Thank you, Pete, more than ever woman thanked you before!"

said Mrs. Comstock.

She placed the lantern on the table and barred the door. 

As she turned Elnora came into view.  Mrs. Comstock

leaned toward her, and held out the moths.  In a voice

vibrant with tones never before heard she said:  "Elnora,

my girl, mother's found you another moth!"

CHAPTER XIII

WHEREIN MOTHER LOVE IS BESTOWED ON ELNORA,

AND SHE FINDS AN ASSISTANT IN MOTH HUNTING

Elnora awoke at dawn and lay gazing around the

unfamiliar room.  She noticed that every vestige

of masculine attire and belongings was gone, and

knew, without any explanation, what that meant. 

For some reason every tangible evidence of her father

was banished, and she was at last to be allowed to

take his place.    She turned to look at her mother. 

Mrs. Comstock's face was white and haggard, but on it

rested an expression of profound peace Elnora never

before had seen.  As she studied the features on the

pillow beside her, the heart of the girl throbbed in tenderness. 

She realized as fully as any one else could what her mother

had suffered.  Thoughts of the night brought shuddering fear. 

She softly slipped from the bed, went to her room, dressed and

entered the kitchen to attend the Emperors and prepare breakfast. 

The pair had been left clinging to the piece of calico. 

The calico was there and a few pieces of beautiful wing. 

A mouse had eaten the moths!

"Well, of all the horrible luck!" gasped Elnora.

With the first thought of her mother, she caught up the

remnants of the moths, burying them in the ashes of the stove. 

She took the bag to her room, hurriedly releasing its

contents, but there was not another yellow one.  Her mother

had said some had been confined in the case in the Limberlost. 

There was still a hope that an Emperor might be among them. 

She peeped at her mother, who still slept soundly.

Elnora took a large piece of mosquito netting, and ran

to the swamp.  Throwing it over the top of the case, she

unlocked the door.  She reeled, faint with distress. 

The living moths that had been confined there in their

fluttering to escape to night and the mates they sought

not only had wrecked the other specimens of the case,

but torn themselves to fringes on the pins.  A third of the

rarest moths of the collection for the man of India were

antennaless, legless, wingless, and often headless. 

Elnora sobbed aloud.

"This is overwhelming," she said at last.  "It is making

a fatalist of me.  I am beginning to think things

happen as they are ordained from the beginning, this

plainly indicating that there is to be no college, at least,

this year, for me.  My life is all mountain-top or canon. 

I wish some one would lead me into a few days of `green pastures.' 

Last night I went to sleep on mother's arm, the moths all

secured, love and college, certainties.  This morning I wake

to find all my hopes wrecked.  I simply don't dare let mother

know that instead of helping me, she has ruined my collection. 

Everything is gone--unless the love lasts.  That actually

seemed true.  I believe I will go see."

The love remained.  Indeed, in the overflow of the long-

hardened, pent-up heart, the girl was almost suffocated

with tempestuous caresses and generous offerings.  Before the

day was over, Elnora realized that she never had known

her mother.  The woman who now busily went through the

cabin, her eyes bright, eager, alert, constantly planning,

was a stranger.  Her very face was different, while it did

not seem possible that during one night the acid of twenty

years could disappear from a voice and leave it sweet and pleasant.

For the next few days Elnora worked at mounting the

moths her mother had taken.  She had to go to the Bird

Woman and tell about the disaster, but Mrs. Comstock

was allowed to think that Elnora delivered the moths

when she made the trip.  If she had told her what actually

happened, the chances were that Mrs. Comstock again

would have taken possession of the Limberlost, hunting

there until she replaced all the moths that had been destroyed. 

But Elnora knew from experience what it meant to collect

such a list in pairs.  It would require steady work for at

least two summers to replace the lost moths.  When she left

the Bird Woman she went to the president of the Onabasha

schools and asked him to do all in his power to secure her

a room in one of the ward buildings.

The next morning the last moth was mounted, and the

housework finished.  Elnora said to her mother, "If you

don't mind, I believe I will go into the woods pasture

beside Sleepy Snake Creek and see if I can catch some

dragonflies or moths."

"Wait until I get a knife and a pail and I will go along,"

answered Mrs. Comstock.  "The dandelions are plenty

tender for greens among the deep grasses, and I might just

happen to see something myself.  My eyes are pretty sharp."

"I wish you could realize how young you are," said Elnora. 

"I know women in Onabasha who are ten years older than you,

yet they look twenty years younger.  So could you, if you

would dress your hair becomingly, and wear appropriate clothes."

"I think my hair puts me in the old woman class permanently,"

said Mrs. Comstock.

"Well, it doesn't!" cried Elnora.  "There is a woman

of twenty-eight who has hair as white as yours from sick

headaches, but her face is young and beautiful.  If your

face would grow a little fuller and those lines would go

away, you'd be lovely!"

"You little pig!" laughed Mrs. Comstock.  "Any one

would think you would be satisfied with having a splinter

new mother, without setting up a kick on her looks,

first thing.  Greedy!"

"That is a good word," said Elnora.  "I admit the charge. 

I am greedy over every wasted year.  I want you young,

lovely, suitably dressed and enjoying life like the

other girls' mothers."

Mrs. Comstock laughed softly as she pushed back her

sunbonnet so that shrubs and bushes beside the way could

be scanned closely.  Elnora walked ahead with a case over

her shoulder, a net in her hand.  Her head was bare, the

rolling collar of her lavender gingham dress was cut in a V

at the throat, the sleeves only reached the elbows.  Every few

steps she paused and examined the shrubbery carefully,

while Mrs. Comstock was watching until her eyes ached,

but there were no dandelions in the pail she carried.

Early June was rioting in fresh grasses, bright flowers,

bird songs, and gay-winged creatures of air.  Down the

footpath the two went through the perfect morning, the

love of God and all nature in their hearts.  At last they

reached the creek, following it toward the bridge.  Here Mrs.

Comstock found a large bed of tender dandelions and stopped

to fill her pail.  Then she sat on the bank, picking over the

greens, while she listened to the creek softly singing its June song.

Elnora remained within calling distance, and was having

good success.  At last she crossed the creek, following

it up to a bridge.  There she began a careful examination

of the under sides of the sleepers and flooring for cocoons. 

Mrs. Comstock could see her and the creek for several

rods above.  The mother sat beating the long green leaves

across her hand, carefully picking out the white buds,

because Elnora liked them, when a splash up the creek

attracted her attention.

Around the bend came a man.  He was bareheaded,

dressed in a white sweater, and waders which reached

his waist.  He walked on the bank, only entering the

water when forced.  He had a queer basket strapped on

his hip, and with a small rod he sent a long line spinning

before him down the creek, deftly manipulating with

it a little floating object.  He was closer Elnora than

her mother, but Mrs. Comstock thought possibly by

hurrying she could remain unseen and yet warn the girl

that a stranger was coming.  As she approached the

bridge, she caught a sapling and leaned over the water to

call Elnora.  With her lips parted to speak she hesitated

a second to watch a sort of insect that flashed past on the

water, when a splash from the man attracted the girl.

She was under the bridge, one knee planted in the

embankment and a foot braced to support her.  Her hair

was tousled by wind and bushes, her face flushed,

and she lifted her arms above her head, working to loosen

a cocoon she had found.  The call Mrs. Comstock had

intended to utter never found voice, for as Elnora looked

down at the sound, "Possibly I could get that for you,"

suggested the man.

Mrs. Comstock drew back.  He was a young man with a

wonderfully attractive face, although it was too

white for robust health, broad shoulders, and slender,

upright frame.

"Oh, I do hope you can!" answered Elnora.  "It's quite

a find!  It's one of those lovely pale red cocoons

described in the books.  I suspect it comes from having

been in a dark place and screened from the weather."

"Is that so?" cried the man.  "Wait a minute.  I've never

seen one.  I suppose it's a Cecropia, from the location."

"Of course," said Elnora.  "It's so cool here the moth

hasn't emerged.  The cocoon is a big, baggy one, and it

is as red as fox tail."

"What luck!" he cried.  "Are you making a collection?"

He reeled in his line, laid his rod across a bush and

climbed the embankment to Elnora's side, produced a

knife and began the work of whittling a deep groove

around the cocoon.

"Yes.  I paid my way through the high school in

Onabasha with them.  Now I am starting a collection

which means college."

"Onabasha!" said the man.  "That is where I am visiting. 

Possibly you know my people--Dr. Ammon's?  The doctor is

my uncle.  My home is in Chicago.  I've been having typhoid

fever, something fierce.  In the hospital six weeks. 

Didn't gain strength right, so Uncle Doc sent for me. 

I am to live out of doors all summer, and exercise until

I get in condition again.  Do you know my uncle?"

"Yes.  He is Aunt Margaret's doctor, and he would

be ours, only we are never ill."

"Well, you look it!" said the man, appraising Elnora

at a glance.

"Strangers always mention it," sighed Elnora.  "I wonder

how it would seem to be a pale, languid lady and ride

in a carriage."

"Ask me!" laughed the man.  "It feels like the--dickens! 

I'm so proud of my feet.  It's quite a trick to stand

on them now.  I have to keep out of the water all I can

and stop to baby every half-mile.  But with interesting

outdoor work I'll be myself in a week."

"Do you call that work?"  Elnora indicated the creek.

"I do, indeed!  Nearly three miles, banks too soft to brag

on and never a strike.  Wouldn't you call that hard labour?"

"Yes," laughed Elnora.  "Work at which you might

kill yourself and never get a fish.  Did any one tell you

there were trout in Sleepy Snake Creek?"

"Uncle said I could try."

"Oh, you can," said Elnora.  "You can try no end,

but you'll never get a trout.  This is too far south and

too warm for them.  If you sit on the bank and use

worms you might catch some perch or catfish."

"But that isn't exercise."

"Well, if you only want exercise, go right on fishing.

You will have a creel full of invisible results every night."

"I object," said the man emphatically.  He stopped

work again and studied Elnora.  Even the watching

mother could not blame him.  In the shade of the bridge

Elnora's bright head and her lavender dress made a

picture worthy of much contemplation.

"I object!" repeated the man.  "When I work I want

to see results.  I'd rather exercise sawing wood, making

one pile grow little and the other big than to cast all day

and catch nothing because there is not a fish to take. 

Work for work's sake doesn't appeal to me."

He digged the groove around the cocoon with skilled hand. 

"Now there is some fun in this!" he said.  It's going to

be a fair job to cut it out, but when it comes, it is

not only beautiful, but worth a price; it will help you on

your way.  I think I'll put up my rod and hunt moths. 

That would be something like!  Don't you want help?"

Elnora parried the question.  "Have you ever hunted

moths, Mr. Ammon?

"Enough to know the ropes in taking them and to

distinguish the commonest ones.  I go wild on Catocalae. 

There's too many of them, all too much alike for Philip,

but I know all these fellows.  One flew into my room when

I was about ten years old, and we thought it a miracle. 

None of us ever had seen one so we took it over to the

museum to Dr. Dorsey.  He said they were common enough,

but we didn't see them because they flew at night. 

He showed me the museum collection, and I was so

interested I took mine back home and started to hunt them. 

Every year after that we went to our cottage a month

earlier, so I could find them, and all my family helped. 

I stuck to it until I went to college.  Then, keeping

the little moths out of the big ones was too much for the

mater, so father advised that I donate mine to the museum. 

He bought a fine case for them with my name on it,

which constitutes my sole contribution to science.  I know

enough to help you all right."

"Aren't you going north this year?"

"All depends on how this fever leaves me.  Uncle says

the nights are too cold and the days too hot there

for me.  He thinks I had better stay in an even

temperature until I am strong again.  I am going to stick

pretty close to him until I know I am.  I wouldn't admit

it to any one at home, but I was almost gone.  I don't

believe anything can eat up nerve much faster than the

burning of a slow fever.  No, thanks, I have enough.

I stay with Uncle Doc, so if I feel it coming again he can

do something quickly."

"I don't blame you," said Elnora.  "I never have been

sick, but it must be dreadful.  I am afraid you are tiring

yourself over that.  Let me take the knife awhile."

"Oh, it isn't so bad as that!  I wouldn't be wading

creeks if it were.  I only need a few more days to get

steady on my feet again.  I'll soon have this out."

"It is kind of you to get it," said Elnora.  "I should

have had to peel it, which would spoil the cocoon for a'

specimen and ruin the moth."

"You haven't said yet whether I may help you while

I am here."

Elnora hesitated.

"You better say `yes,'" he persisted.  "It would be a

real kindness.  It would keep me outdoors all day and

give an incentive to work.  I'm good at it.  I'll show you

if I am not in a week or so.  I can `sugar,' manipulate

lights, and mirrors, and all the expert methods.  I'll wager,

moths are numerous in the old swamp over there."

"They are," said Elnora.  "Most I have I took there. 

A few nights ago my mother caught a number, but we

don't dare go alone."

"All the more reason why you need me.  Where do

you live?  I can't get an answer from you, I'll go tell

your mother who I am and ask her if I may help you. 

I warn you, young lady, I have a very effective way

with mothers.  They almost never turn me down."

"Then it's probable you will have a new experience

when you meet mine," said Elnora.  "She never was

known to do what any one expected she surely would."

The cocoon came loose.  Philip Ammon stepped down

the embankment turning to offer his hand to Elnora. 

She ran down as she would have done alone, and taking

the cocoon turned it end for end to learn if the imago it

contained were alive.  Then Ammon took back the cocoon

to smooth the edges.  Mrs. Comstock gave them one

long look as they stood there, and returned to

her dandelions.  While she worked she paused occasionally,

listening intently.  Presently they came down the creek,

the man carrying the cocoon as if it were a jewel, while

Elnora made her way along the bank, taking a lesson in casting. 

Her face was flushed with excitement, her eyes shining,

the bushes taking liberties with her hair.  For a picture

of perfect loveliness she scarcely could have been surpassed,

and the eyes of Philip Ammon seemed to be in working order.

"Moth-er!" called Elnora.

There was an undulant, caressing sweetness in the girl's

voice, as she sung out the call in perfect confidence

that it would bring a loving answer, that struck deep in

Mrs. Comstock's heart.  She never had heard that word

so pronounced before and a lump arose in her throat.

"Here!" she answered, still cleaning dandelions.

"Mother, this is Mr. Philip Ammon, of Chicago,"

said Elnora.  "He has been ill and he is staying with

Dr. Ammon in Onabasha.  He came down the creek

fishing and cut this cocoon from under the bridge for me. 

He feels that it would be better to hunt moths than to

fish, until he is well.  What do you think about it?"

Philip Ammon extended his hand.  "I am glad to

know you," he said.

"You may take the hand-shaking for granted," replied

Mrs. Comstock.  "Dandelions have a way of making

fingers sticky, and I like to know a man before I

take his hand, anyway.  That introduction seems mighty

comprehensive on your part, but it still leaves

me unclassified.  My name is Comstock."

Philip Ammon bowed.

"I am sorry to hear you have been sick," said Mrs. Comstock. 

"But if people will live where they have such vile water as

they do in Chicago, I don't see what else they are to expect."

Philip studied her intently.

"I am sure I didn't have a fever on purpose," he said.

"You do seem a little wobbly on your legs," she observed. 

"Maybe you had better sit and rest while I finish

these greens.  It's late for the genuine article, but

in the shade, among long grass they are still tender."

"May I have a leaf?" he asked, reaching for one as he sat

on the bank, looking from the little creek at his feet, away

through the dim cool spaces of the June forest on the

opposite side.  He drew a deep breath.  "Glory, but this

is good after almost two months inside hospital walls!"

He stretched on the grass and lay gazing up at the

leaves, occasionally asking the interpretation of a bird note

or the origin of an unfamiliar forest voice.  Elnora began

helping with the dandelions.

"Another, please," said the young man, holding out his hand.

"Do you suppose this is the kind of grass Nebuchadnezzar

ate?" Elnora asked, giving the leaf.

"He knew a good thing if it is."

"Oh, you should taste dandelions boiled with bacon and

served with mother's cornbread."

"Don't!  My appetite is twice my size now.  While it

is--how far is it to Onabasha, shortest cut?"

"Three miles."

The man lay in perfect content, nibbling leaves.

"This surely is a treat," he said.  "No wonder you find

good hunting here.  There seems to be foliage for almost

every kind of caterpillar.  But I suppose you have to

exchange for northern species and Pacific Coast kinds?"

"Yes.  And every one wants Regalis in trade.  I never

saw the like.  They consider a Cecropia or a Polyphemus

an insult, and a Luna is barely acceptable."

"What authorities have you?"

Elnora began to name text-books which started a discussion. 

Mrs. Comstock listened.  She cleaned dandelions with greater

deliberation than they ever before were examined. 

In reality she was taking stock of the young man's long,

well-proportioned frame, his strong hands, his smooth,

fine-textured skin, his thick shock of dark hair,

and making mental notes of his simple manly speech and

the fact that he evidently did know much about moths. 

It pleased her to think that if he had been a neighbour boy

who had lain beside her every day of his life while she

worked, he could have been no more at home.  She liked

the things he said, but she was proud that Elnora had a

ready answer which always seemed appropriate.

At last Mrs. Comstock finished the greens.

"You are three miles from the city and less than a mile

from where we live," she said.  "If you will tell me what

you dare eat, I suspect you had best go home with us and

rest until the cool of the day before you start back. 

Probably some one that you can ride in with will be passing

before evening."

"That is mighty kind of you," said Philip.  "I think I will. 

It doesn't matter so much what I eat, the point is that

I must be moderate.  I am hungry all the time."

"Then we will go," said Mrs. Comstock, "and we will

not allow you to make yourself sick with us."

Philip Ammon arose: picking up the pail of greens and

his fishing rod, he stood waiting.  Elnora led the way. 

Mrs. Comstock motioned Philip to follow and she walked

in the rear.  The girl carried the cocoon and the box of

moths she had taken, searching every step for more. 

The young man frequently set down his load to join in

the pursuit of a dragonfly or moth, while Mrs. Comstock watched

the proceedings with sharp eyes.  Every time Philip picked

up the pail of greens she struggled to suppress a smile.

Elnora proceeded slowly, chattering about everything

beside the trail.  Philip was interested in all the objects

she pointed out, noticing several things which escaped her. 

He carried the greens as casually when they took a short

cut down the roadway as on the trail.  When Elnora

turned toward the gate of her home Philip Ammon

stopped, took a long look at the big hewed log cabin, the

vines which clambered over it, the flower garden ablaze

with beds of bright bloom interspersed with strawberries

and tomatoes, the trees of the forest rising north and west

like a green wall and exclaimed:  "How beautiful!"

Mrs. Comstock was pleased.  "If you think that," she

said, "perhaps you will understand how, in all this present-

day rush to be modern, I have preferred to remain as I began. 

My husband and I took up this land, and enough

trees to build the cabin, stable, and outbuildings are

nearly all we ever cut.  Of course, if he had lived,

I suppose we should have kept up with our neighbours.  I hear

considerable about the value of the land, the trees which

are on it, and the oil which is supposed to be under it,

but as yet I haven't brought myself to change anything. 

So we stand for one of the few remaining homes of first

settlers in this region.  Come in.  You are very welcome

to what we have."

Mrs. Comstock stepped forward and took the lead. 

She had a bowl of soft water and a pair of boots to offer

for the heavy waders, for outer comfort, a glass of cold

buttermilk and a bench on which to rest, in the circular

arbour until dinner was ready.  Philip Ammon splashed

in the water.  He followed to the stable and exchanged

boots there.  He was ravenous for the buttermilk, and

when he stretched on the bench in the arbour the

flickering patches of sunlight so tantalized his tired eyes,

while the bees made such splendid music, he was soon

sound asleep.  When Elnora and her mother came out with a

table they stood a short time looking at him.  It is probable

Mrs. Comstock voiced a united thought when she said:  "What a

refined, decent looking young man!  How proud his mother must

be of him!  We must be careful what we let him eat."

Then they returned to the kitchen where Mrs. Comstock

proceeded to be careful.  She broiled ham of her own

sugar-curing, creamed potatoes, served asparagus on

toast, and made a delicious strawberry shortcake.  As she

cooked dandelions with bacon, she feared to serve them to

him, so she made an excuse that it took too long to prepare

them, blanched some and made a salad.  When everything

was ready she touched Philip's sleeve.

"Best have something to eat, lad, before you get too

hungry," she said.

"Please hurry!" he begged laughingly as he held a plate

toward her to be filled.  "I thought I had enough self-

restraint to start out alone, but I see I was mistaken. 

If you would allow me, just now, I am afraid I should start

a fever again.  I never did smell food so good as this. 

It's mighty kind of you to take me in.  I hope I will be man

enough in a few days to do something worth while in return."

Spots of sunshine fell on the white cloth and blue china,

the bees and an occasional stray butterfly came searching

for food.  A rose-breasted grosbeak, released from a three

hours' siege of brooding, while his independent mate took

her bath and recreation, mounted the top branch of a

maple in the west woods from which he serenaded the

dinner party with a joyful chorus in celebration of his freedom. 

Philip's eyes strayed to the beautiful cabin, to the

mixture of flowers and vegetables stretching down to the

road, and to the singing bird with his red-splotched breast

of white and he said:  "I can't realize now that I ever lay in

ice packs in a hospital.  How I wish all the sick folks could

come here to grow strong!"

The grosbeak sang on, a big Turnus butterfly sailed

through the arbour and poised over the table.  Elnora held

up a lump of sugar and the butterfly, clinging to her

fingers, tasted daintily.  With eager eyes and parted

lips, the girl held steadily.  When at last it wavered

away, "That made a picture!" said Philip.  "Ask me some

other time how I lost my illusions concerning butterflies. 

I always thought of them in connection with sunshine,

flower pollen, and fruit nectar, until one sad day."

"I know!" laughed Elnora.  "I've seen that, too, but

it didn't destroy any illusion for me.  I think quite as

much of the butterflies as ever."

Then they talked of flowers, moths, dragonflies, Indian

relics, and all the natural wonders the swamp afforded,

straying from those subjects to books and school work. 

When they cleared the table Philip assisted, carrying

several tray loads to the kitchen.  He and Elnora mounted

specimens while Mrs Comstock washed the dishes.  Then she

came out with a ruffle she was embroidering.

"I wonder if I did not see a picture of you in Onabasha

last night," Philip said to Elnora.  "Aunt Anna took me

to call on Miss Brownlee.  She was showing me her

crowd--of course, it was you!  But it didn't half do you

justice, although it was the nearest human of any of them. 

Miss Brownlee is very fond of you.  She said the finest things."

Then they talked of Commencement, and at last Philip said

he must go or his friends would become anxious about him.

Mrs. Comstock brought him a blue bowl of creamy milk

and a plate of bread.  She stopped a passing team and

secured a ride to the city for him, as his exercise of the

morning had been too violent, and he was forced to admit

he was tired.

"May I come to-morrow afternoon and hunt moths awhile?"

he asked Mrs. Comstock as he arose.  "We will `sugar' a

tree and put a light beside it, if I can get stuff to

make the preparation.  Possibly we can take some that way. 

I always enjoy moth hunting, I'd like to help Miss Elnora,

and it would be a charity to me.  I've got to remain

outdoors some place, and I'm quite sure I'd get well

faster here than anywhere else.  Please say I may come."

"I have no objections, if Elnora really would like help,"

said Mrs. Comstock.

In her heart she wished he would not come.  She wanted

her newly found treasure all to herself, for a time,

at least.  But Elnora's were eager, shining eyes. 

She thought it would be splendid to have help, and

great fun to try book methods for taking moths, so it

was arranged.  As Philip rode away, Mrs. Comstock's eyes

followed him.  "What a nice young man!" she said.

"He seems fine," agreed Elnora.

"He comes of a good family, too.  I've often heard of

his father.  He is a great lawyer."

"I am glad he likes it here.  I need help.  Possibly----"

"Possibly what?"

"We can find many moths."

"What did he mean about the butterflies?"

"That he always had connected them with sunshine,

flowers, and fruits, and thought of them as the most

exquisite of creations; then one day he found some

clustering thickly over carrion."

"Come to think of it, I have seen butterflies----"

"So had he," laughed Elnora.  "And that is what he meant."

CHAPTER XIV

WHEREIN A NEW POSITION IS TENDERED ELNORA,

AND PHILIP AMMON IS SHOWN LIMBERLOST VIOLETS

The next morning Mrs. Comstock called to Elnora,

"The mail carrier stopped at our box."

Elnora ran down the walk and came back carrying an

official letter.  She tore it open and read:

MY DEAR MISS COMSTOCK:

At the weekly meeting of the Onabasha School Board last night, it

was decided to add the position of Lecturer on Natural History to

our corps of city teachers.  It will be the duty of this person to

spend two hours a week in each of the grade schools exhibiting and

explaining specimens of the most prominent objects in nature: 

animals, birds, insects, flowers, vines, shrubs, bushes, and trees. 

These specimens and lectures should be appropriate to the seasons

and the comprehension of the grades.  This position was unanimously

voted to you.  I think you will find the work delightful and much

easier than the routine grind of the other teachers.  It is my advice

that you accept and begin to prepare yourself at once.  Your salary

will be $750 a year, and you will be allowed $200 for expenses in

procuring specimens and books.  Let us know at once if you want the

position, as it is going to be difficult to fill satisfactorily if

you do not.

                              Very truly yours,

          DAVID THOMPSON, President, Onabasha Schools.

"I hardly understand," marvelled Mrs. Comstock.

"It is a new position.  They never have had anything

like it before.  I suspect it arose from the help I've been

giving the grade teachers in their nature work.  They are

trying to teach the children something, and half the

instructors don't know a blue jay from a king-fisher, a

beech leaf from an elm, or a wasp from a hornet."

"Well, do you?" anxiously inquired Mrs. Comstock.

"Indeed, I do!" laughed Elnora, "and several other

things beside.  When Freckles bequeathed me the

swamp, he gave me a bigger inheritance than he knew. 

While you have thought I was wandering aimlessly, I

have been following a definite plan, studying hard, and

storing up the stuff that will earn these seven hundred

and fifty dollars.  Mother dear, I am going to accept

this, of course.  The work will be a delight.  I'd love

it most of anything in teaching.  You must help me. 

We must find nests, eggs, leaves, queer formations in

plants and rare flowers.  I must have flower boxes made

for each of the rooms and filled with wild things. 

I should begin to gather specimens this very day."

Elnora's face was flushed and her eyes bright.

"Oh, what great work that will be!" she cried.  "You must

go with me so you can see the little faces when I tell

them how the goldfinch builds its nest, and how the

bees make honey."

So Elnora and her mother went into the woods behind

the cabin to study nature.

"I think," said Elnora, "the idea is to begin with fall

things in the fall, keeping to the seasons throughout the year."

"What are fall things?" inquired Mrs. Comstock.

"Oh, fringed gentians, asters, ironwort, every fall

flower, leaves from every tree and vine, what makes them

change colour, abandoned bird nests, winter quarters

of caterpillars and insects, what becomes of the

butterflies and grasshoppers--myriads of stuff.  I shall

have to be very wise to select the things it will be most

beneficial for the children to learn."

"Can I really help you?" Mrs. Comstock's strong face

was pathetic.

"Indeed, yes!" cried Elnora.  "I never can get through

it alone.  There will be an immense amount of work

connected with securing and preparing specimens."

Mrs. Comstock lifted her head proudly and began

doing business at once.  Her sharp eyes ranged from

earth to heaven.  She investigated everything, asking

innumerable questions.  At noon Mrs. Comstock took

the specimens they had collected, and went to prepare

dinner, while Elnora followed the woods down to the

Sintons' to show her letter.

She had to explain what became of her moths, and why

college would have to be abandoned for that year, but

Margaret and Wesley vowed not to tell.  Wesley waved

the letter excitedly, explaining it to Margaret as if it

were a personal possession.  Margaret was deeply impressed,

while Billy volunteered first aid in gathering material.

"Now anything you want in the ground, Snap can dig

it out," he said.  "Uncle Wesley and I found a hole

three times as big as Snap, that he dug at the roots of

a tree."

"We will train him to hunt pupae cases," said Elnora.

"Are you going to the woods this afternoon?" asked Billy.

"Yes," answered Elnora.  "Dr. Ammon's nephew

from Chicago is visiting in Onabasha.  He is going to

show me how men put some sort of compound on a tree,

hang a light beside it, and take moths that way.  It will

be interesting to watch and learn."

"May I come?" asked Billy.

"Of course you may come!" answered Elnora.

"Is this nephew of Dr. Ammon a young man?" inquired Margaret.

"About twenty-six, I should think," said Elnora. 

"He said he had been out of college and at work in his

father's law office three years."

"Does he seem nice?" asked Margaret, and Wesley smiled.

"Finest kind of a person," said Elnora.  "He can

teach me so much.  It is very interesting to hear

him talk.  He knows considerable about moths that will

be a help to me.  He had a fever and he has to stay

outdoors until he grows strong again."

"Billy, I guess you better help me this afternoon,"

said Margaret.  "Maybe Elnora had rather not bother

with you."

"There's no reason on earth why Billy should not

come!" cried Elnora, and Wesley smiled again.

"I must hurry home or I won't be ready," she added.

Hastening down the road she entered the cabin, her

face glowing.

"I thought you never would come," said Mrs. Comstock. 

"If you don't hurry Mr. Ammon will be here before you

are dressed."

"I forgot about him until just now," said Elnora. 

"I am not going to dress.  He's not coming to visit. 

We are only going to the woods for more specimens. 

I can't wear anything that requires care.  The limbs

take the most dreadful liberties with hair and clothing."

Mrs. Comstock opened her lips, looked at Elnora and

closed them.  In her heart she was pleased that the

girl was so interested in her work that she had forgotten

Philip Ammon's coming.  But it did seem to her that

such a pleasant young man should have been greeted

by a girl in a fresh dress.  "If she isn't disposed to primp

at the coming of a man, heaven forbid that I should be

the one to start her," thought Mrs. Comstock.

Philip came whistling down the walk between the

cinnamon pinks, pansies, and strawberries.  He carried

several packages, while his face flushed with more colour

than on the previous day.

"Only see what has happened to me!" cried Elnora,

offering her letter.

"I'll wager I know!" answered Philip.  "Isn't it great! 

Every one in Onabasha is talking about it.  At last there

is something new under the sun.  All of them are pleased. 

They think you'll make a big success.  This will give an

incentive to work.  In a few days more I'll be myself

again, and we'll overturn the fields and woods around here."

He went on to congratulate Mrs. Comstock. 

"Aren't you proud of her, though?" he asked.  "You should

hear what folks are saying!  They say she created the

necessity for the position, and every one seems to feel

that it is a necessity.  Now, if she succeeds, and she will,

all of the other city schools will have such departments,

and first thing you know she will have made the whole

world a little better.  Let me rest a few seconds; my feet

are acting up again.  Then we will cook the moth compound

and put it to cool."

He laughed as he sat breathing shortly.

"It doesn't seem possible that a fellow could lose his

strength like this.  My knees are actually trembling,

but I'll be all right in a minute.  Uncle Doc said I

could come.  I told him how you took care of me, and he

said I would be safe here."

Then he began unwrapping packages and explaining

to Mrs. Comstock how to cook the compound to attract

the moths.  He followed her into the kitchen, kindled

the fire, and stirred the preparation as he talked. 

While the mixture cooled, he and Elnora walked through

the vegetable garden behind the cabin and strayed from

there into the woods.

"What about college?" he asked.  "Miss Brownlee said

you were going."

"I had hoped to," replied Elnora, "but I had a streak

of dreadful luck, so I'll have to wait until next year. 

If you won't speak of it, I'll tell you."

Philip promised, so Elnora recited the history of the

Yellow Emperor.  She was so interested in doing the

Emperor justice she did not notice how many personalities

went into the story.  A few pertinent questions

told him the remainder.  He looked at the girl in wonder. 

In face and form she was as lovely as any one of her age

and type he ever had seen.  Her school work far surpassed

that of most girls of her age he knew.  She differed in

other ways.  This vast store of learning she had gathered

from field and forest was a wealth of attraction no other

girl possessed.  Her frank, matter-of-fact manner was an

inheritance from her mother, but there was something more. 

Once, as they talked he thought "sympathy" was the word

to describe it and again "comprehension."  She seemed to

possess a large sense of brotherhood for all human and

animate creatures.  She spoke to him as if she had known

him all her life.  She talked to the grosbeak in exactly

the same manner, as she laid strawberries and potato bugs

on the fence for his family.  She did not swerve an inch

from her way when a snake slid past her, while the squirrels

came down from the trees and took corn from her fingers. 

She might as well have been a boy, so lacking was she in

any touch of feminine coquetry toward him.  He studied

her wonderingly.  As they went along the path they reached

a large slime-covered pool surrounded by decaying stumps

and logs thickly covered with water hyacinths and blue flags. 

Philip stopped.

"Is that the place?" he asked.

Elnora assented.  "The doctor told you?"

"Yes.  It was tragic.  Is that pool really bottomless?"

"So far as we ever have been able to discover."

Philip stood looking at the water, while the long, sweet

grasses, thickly sprinkled with blue flag bloom, over which

wild bees clambered, swayed around his feet.  Then he

turned to the girl.  She had worked hard.  The same

lavender dress she had worn the previous day clung to her

in limp condition.  But she was as evenly coloured and of

as fine grain as a wild rose petal, her hair was really brown,

but never was such hair touched with a redder glory, while

her heavy arching brows added a look of strength to her

big gray-blue eyes.

"And you were born here?"

He had not intended to voice that thought.

"Yes," she said, looking into his eyes.  "Just in time

to prevent my mother from saving the life of my father. 

She came near never forgiving me."

"Ah, cruel!" cried Philip.

"I find much in life that is cruel, from our standpoints,"

said Elnora.  "It takes the large wisdom of the Unfathomable,

the philosophy of the Almighty, to endure some of it. 

But there is always right somewhere, and at last it seems

to come."

"Will it come to you?" asked Philip, who found himself

deeply affected.

"It has come," said the girl serenely.  "It came a week ago. 

It came in fullest measure when my mother ceased to regret

that I had been born.  Now, work that I love has come--that

should constitute happiness.  A little farther along is my

violet bed.  I want you to see it."

As Philip Ammon followed he definitely settled upon the

name of the unusual feature of Elnora's face.  It should be

called "experience."  She had known bitter experiences

early in life.  Suffering had been her familiar more than joy. 

He watched her earnestly, his heart deeply moved.  She led

him into a swampy half-open space in the woods, stopped

and stepped aside.  He uttered a cry of surprised delight.

A few decaying logs were scattered around, the grass

grew in tufts long and fine.  Blue flags waved, clusters of

cowslips nodded gold heads, but the whole earth was purple

with a thick blanket of violets nodding from stems a foot

in length.  Elnora knelt and slipping her fingers between

the leaves and grasses to the roots, gathered a few violets

and gave them to Philip.

"Can your city greenhouses surpass them?" she asked.

He sat on a log to examine the blooms.

"They are superb!" he said.  "I never saw such

length of stem or such rank leaves, while the flowers are

the deepest blue, the truest violet I ever saw growing wild. 

They are coloured exactly like the eyes of the girl I am

going to marry."

Elnora handed him several others to add to those he held. 

"She must have wonderful eyes," she commented.

"No other blue eyes are quite so beautiful," he said. 

"In fact, she is altogether lovely."

"Is it customary for a man to think the girl he is going

to marry lovely?  I wonder if I should find her so."

"You would," said Philip.  "No one ever fails to.  She is

tall as you, very slender, but perfectly rounded; you

know about her eyes; her hair is black and wavy--while

her complexion is clear and flushed with red."

"Why, she must be the most beautiful girl in the whole

world!" she cried.

"No, indeed!" he said.  "She is not a particle better

looking in her way than you are in yours.  She is a type

of dark beauty, but you are equally as perfect.  She is

unusual in her combination of black hair and violet eyes,

although every one thinks them black at a little distance. 

You are quite as unusual with your fair face, black brows,

and brown hair; indeed, I know many people who would

prefer your bright head to her dark one.  It's all a question

of taste--and being engaged to the girl," he added.

"That would be likely to prejudice one," laughed Elnora.

"Edith has a birthday soon; if these last will you let me

have a box of them to send her?"

"I will help gather and pack them for you, so they will

carry nicely.  Does she hunt moths with you?"

Back went Philip Ammon's head in a gale of laughter.

"No!" he cried.  "She says they are `creepy.'  She would

go into a spasm if she were compelled to touch those

caterpillars I saw you handling yesterday."

"Why would she?" marvelled Elnora.  "Haven't you

told her that they are perfectly clean, helpless,

and harmless as so much animate velvet?"

"No, I have not told her.  She wouldn't care enough

about caterpillars to listen."

"In what is she interested?"

"What interests Edith Carr?  Let me think!  First, I

believe she takes pride in being a little handsomer and

better dressed than any girl of her set.  She is interested

in having a beautiful home, fine appointments, in being

petted, praised, and the acknowledged leader of society.

"She likes to find new things which amuse her, and to always

and in all circumstances have her own way about everything."

"Good gracious!" cried Elnora, staring at him.  "But what

does she do?  How does she spend her time?"

"Spend her time!" repeated Philip.  "Well, she would call

that a joke.  Her days are never long enough.  There is

endless shopping, to find the pretty things; regular visits

to the dressmakers, calls, parties, theatres, entertainments. 

She is always rushed.  I never am able to be with her half as

much as I would like."

"But I mean work," persisted Elnora.  "In what is she

interested that is useful to the world?"

"Me!" cried Philip promptly.

"I can understand that," laughed Elnora.  "What I

can't understand is how you can be in----"  She stopped in

confusion, but she saw that he had finished the sentence as

she had intended.  "I beg your pardon!" she cried.  "I didn't

intend to say that.  But I cannot understand these people

I hear about who live only for their own amusement. 

Perhaps it is very great; I'll never have a chance to know. 

To me, it seems the only pleasure in this world worth

having is the joy we derive from living for those we love,

and those we can help.  I hope you are not angry with me."

Philip sat silently looking far away, with deep thought

in his eyes.

"You are angry," faltered Elnora.

His look came back to her as she knelt before him among

the flowers and he gazed at her steadily.

"No doubt I should be," he said, "but the fact is I

am not.  I cannot understand a life purely for personal

pleasure myself.  But she is only a girl, and this is

her playtime.  When she is a woman in her own home, then

she will be different, will she not?"

Elnora never resembled her mother so closely as when

she answered that question.

"I would have to be well acquainted with her to know,

but I should hope so.  To make a real home for a tired

business man is a very different kind of work from that

required to be a leader of society.  It demands different

talent and education.  Of course, she means to change, or

she would not have promised to make a home for you.  I suspect

our dope is cool now, let's go try for some butterflies."

As they went along the path together Elnora talked of

many things but Philip answered absently.  Evidently he

was thinking of something else.  But the moth bait

recalled him and he was ready for work as they made their

way back to the woods.  He wanted to try the Limberlost,

but Elnora was firm about remaining on home ground. 

She did not tell him that lights hung in the swamp would

be a signal to call up a band of men whose presence

she dreaded.  So they started, Ammon carrying the dope,

Elnora the net, Billy and Mrs. Comstock following with

cyanide boxes and lanterns.

First they tried for butterflies and captured several fine

ones without trouble.  They also called swarms of ants,

bees, beetles, and flies.  When it grew dusk, Mrs. Comstock

and Philip went to prepare supper.  Elnora and Billy

remained until the butterflies disappeared.  Then they

lighted the lanterns, repainted the trees and followed

the home trail.

"Do you 'spec you'll get just a lot of moths?" asked

Billy, as he walked beside Elnora.

"I am sure I hardly know," said the girl.  "This is a

new way for me.  Perhaps they will come to the lights, but

few moths eat; and I have some doubt about those which

the lights attract settling on the right trees.  Maybe the

smell of that dope will draw them.  Between us, Billy, I

think I like my old way best.  If I can find a hidden moth,

slip up and catch it unawares, or take it in full flight,

it's my captive, and I can keep it until it dies naturally. 

But this way you seem to get it under false pretences, it has no

chance, and it will probably ruin its wings struggling for

freedom before morning."

"Well, any moth ought to be proud to be taken anyway,

by you," said Billy.  "Just look what you do!  You can

make everybody love them.  People even quit hating

caterpillars when they see you handle them and hear you

tell all about them.  You must have some to show people

how they are.  It's not like killing things to see if you

can, or because you want to eat them, the way most men

kill birds.  I think it is right for you to take enough for

collections, to show city people, and to illustrate the

Bird Woman's books.  You go on and take them!  The moths

don't care.  They're glad to have you.  They like it!"

"Billy, I see your future," said Elnora.  "We will

educate you and send you up to Mr. Ammon to make a

great lawyer.  You'd beat the world as a special pleader.

You actually make me feel that I am doing the moths a

kindness to take them."

"And so you are!" cried Billy.  "Why, just from what

you have taught them Uncle Wesley and Aunt Margaret

never think of killing a caterpillar until they look whether

it's the beautiful June moth kind, or the horrid tent ones. 

That's what you can do.  You go straight ahead!"

"Billy, you are a jewel!" cried Elnora, throwing her arm

across his shoulders as they came down the path.

"My, I was scared!" said Billy with a deep breath. 

"Scared?" questioned Elnora.

"Yes sir-ee!  Aunt Margaret scared me.  May I ask

you a question?"

"Of course, you may!"

"Is that man going to be your beau?"

"Billy!  No!  What made you think such a thing?"

"Aunt Margaret said likely he would fall in love with

you, and you wouldn't want me around any more.  Oh, but

I was scared!  It isn't so, is it?"

"Indeed, no!"

"I am your beau, ain't I?"

"Surely you are!" said Elnora, tightening her arm.

"I do hope Aunt Kate has ginger cookies," said Billy

with a little skip of delight.

CHAPTER XV

WHEREIN MRS. COMSTOCK FACES THE ALMIGHTY,

AND PHILIP AMMON WRITES A LETTER

Mrs. Comstock and Elnora were finishing breakfast

the following morning when they heard a cheery whistle

down the road.  Elnora with surprised eyes looked at

her mother.

"Could that be Mr. Ammon?" she questioned.

"I did not expect him so soon," commented Mrs. Comstock.

It was sunrise, but the musician was Philip Ammon. 

He appeared stronger than on yesterday.

"I hope I am not too early," he said.  "I am consumed

with anxiety to learn if we have made a catch.  If we

have, we should beat the birds to it.  I promised Uncle

Doc to put on my waders and keep dry for a few days yet,

when I go to the woods.  Let's hurry!  I am afraid of crows. 

There might be a rare moth."

The sun was topping the Limberlost when they started. 

As they neared the place Philip stopped.

"Now we must use great caution," he said.  "The lights

and the odours always attract numbers that don't settle

on the baited trees.  Every bush, shrub, and limb may

hide a specimen we want."

So they approached with much care.

"There is something, anyway!" cried Philip.

"There are moths!  I can see them!" exulted Elnora.

"Those you see are fast enough.  It's the ones for

which you must search that will escape.  The grasses

are dripping, and I have boots, so you look beside the

path while I take the outside," suggested Ammon.

Mrs. Comstock wanted to hunt moths, but she was

timid about making a wrong movement, so she wisely

sat on a log and watched Philip and Elnora to learn how

they proceeded.  Back in the deep woods a hermit thrush

was singing his chant to the rising sun.  Orioles were

sowing the pure, sweet air with notes of gold, poured out

while on wing.  The robins were only chirping now, for

their morning songs had awakened all the other birds an

hour ago.  Scolding red-wings tilted on half the bushes. 

Excepting late species of haws, tree bloom was almost

gone, but wild flowers made the path border and all the

wood floor a riot of colour.  Elnora, born among such

scenes, worked eagerly, but to the city man, recently from

a hospital, they seemed too good to miss.  He frequently

stooped to examine a flower face, paused to listen

intently to the thrush or lifted his head to see the

gold flash which accompanied the oriole's trailing notes. 

So Elnora uttered the first cry, as she softly lifted

branches and peered among the grasses.

"My find!" she called.  "Bring the box, mother!"

Philip came hurrying also.  When they reached her

she stood on the path holding a pair of moths.  Her eyes

were wide with excitement, her cheeks pink, her red

lips parted, and on the hand she held out to them

clung a pair of delicate blue-green moths, with white

bodies, and touches of lavender and straw colour. 

All around her lay flower-brocaded grasses, behind the

deep green background of the forest, while the sun slowly

sifted gold from heaven to burnish her hair.  Mrs. Comstock

heard a sharp breath behind her.

"Oh, what a picture!" exulted Philip at her shoulder. 

"She is absolutely and altogether lovely!  I'd give a

small fortune for that faithfully set on canvas!"

He picked the box from Mrs. Comstock's fingers and

slowly advanced with it.  Elnora held down her hand

and transferred the moths.  Philip closed the box

carefully, but the watching mother saw that his eyes were

following the girl's face.  He was not making the slightest

attempt to conceal his admiration.

"I wonder if a woman ever did anything lovelier than

to find a pair of Luna moths on a forest path, early on

a perfect June morning," he said to Mrs. Comstock,

when he returned the box.

She glanced at Elnora who was intently searching the bushes.

"Look here, young man," said Mrs. Comstock.  "You seem

to find that girl of mine about right."

"I could suggest no improvement," said Philip.  "I never

saw a more attractive girl anywhere.  She seems absolutely

perfect to me."

"Then suppose you don't start any scheme calculated

to spoil her!" proposed Mrs. Comstock dryly.  "I don't

think you can, or that any man could, but I'm not taking

any risks.  You asked to come here to help in this work. 

We are both glad to have you, if you confine yourself to work;

but it's the least you can do to leave us as you find us."

"I beg your pardon!" said Philip.  "I intended no offence. 

I admire her as I admire any perfect creation."

"And nothing in all this world spoils the average girl

so quickly and so surely," said Mrs. Comstock.  She raised

her voice.  "Elnora, fasten up that tag of hair over your

left ear.  These bushes muss you so you remind me of a

sheep poking its nose through a hedge fence."

Mrs. Comstock started down the path toward the log

again, when she reached it she called sharply:  "Elnora,

come here!  I believe I have found something myself."

The "something" was a Citheronia Regalis which had

emerged from its case on the soft earth under the log. 

It climbed up the wood, its stout legs dragging a big

pursy body, while it wildly flapped tiny wings the size

of a man's thumb-nail.  Elnora gave one look and a cry

which brought Philip.

"That's the rarest moth in America!" he announced. 

"Mrs. Comstock, you've gone up head.  You can put

that in a box with a screen cover to-night, and attract

half a dozen, possibly."

"Is it rare, Elnora?" inquired Mrs. Comstock, as if no

one else knew.

"It surely is," answered Elnora.  "If we can find

it a mate to-night, it will lay from two hundred and fifty

to three hundred eggs to-morrow.  With any luck at

all I can raise two hundred caterpillars from them. 

I did once before.  And they are worth a dollar apiece."

"Was the one I killed like that?"

"No.  That was a different moth, but its life processes

were the same as this.  The Bird Woman calls this the

King of the Poets."

"Why does she?"

"Because it is named for Citheron who was a poet, and

regalis refers to a king.  You mustn't touch it or you

may stunt wing development.  You watch and don't let

that moth out of sight, or anything touch it.  When the

wings are expanded and hardened we will put it in a box."

"I am afraid it will race itself to death," objected

Mrs. Comstock.

"That's a part of the game," said Philip.  "It is starting

circulation now.  When the right moment comes, it will

stop and expand its wings.  If you watch closely you can

see them expand."

Presently the moth found a rough projection of bark

and clung with its feet, back down, its wings hanging. 

The body was an unusual orange red, the tiny wings were

gray, striped with the red and splotched here and there

with markings of canary yellow.  Mrs. Comstock watched

breathlessly.  Presently she slipped from the log and

knelt to secure a better view.

"Are its wings developing?" called Elnora.

"They are growing larger and the markings coming

stronger every minute."

"Let's watch, too," said Elnora to Philip.

They came and looked over Mrs. Comstock's shoulder. 

Lower drooped the gay wings, wider they spread, brighter

grew the markings as if laid off in geometrical patterns. 

They could hear Mrs. Comstock's tense breath and see

her absorbed expression.

"Young people," she said solemnly, "if your studying

science and the elements has ever led you to feel that

things just happen, kind of evolve by chance, as it were,

this sight will be good for you.  Maybe earth and air

accumulate, but it takes the wisdom of the Almighty God

to devise the wing of a moth.  If there ever was a miracle,

this whole process is one.  Now, as I understand it, this

creature is going to keep on spreading those wings, until

they grow to size and harden to strength sufficient to

bear its body.  Then it flies away, mates with its kind,

lays its eggs on the leaves of a certain tree, and the eggs

hatch tiny caterpillars which eat just that kind of leaves,

and the worms grow and grow, and take on different

forms and colours until at last they are big caterpillars

six inches long, with large horns.  Then they burrow into

the earth, build a water-proof house around themselves

from material which is inside them, and lie through rain

and freezing cold for months.  A year from egg laying they

come out like this, and begin the process all over again. 

They don't eat, they don't see distinctly, they live but

a few days, and fly only at night; then they drop off easy,

but the process goes on."

A shivering movement went over the moth.  The wings

drooped and spread wider.  Mrs. Comstock sank into

soft awed tones.

"There never was a moment in my life," she said,

"when I felt so in the Presence, as I do now.  I feel as

if the Almighty were so real, and so near, that I could

reach out and touch Him, as I could this wonderful work

of His, if I dared.  I feel like saying to Him:  `To the

extent of my brain power I realize Your presence, and all

it is in me to comprehend of Your power.  Help me to learn,

even this late, the lessons of Your wonderful creations. 

Help me to unshackle and expand my soul to the fullest

realization of Your wonders.  Almighty God, make me bigger,

make me broader!'"

The moth climbed to the end of the projection, up it

a little way, then suddenly reversed its wings, turned

the hidden sides out and dropped them beside its abdomen,

like a large fly.  The upper side of the wings, thus

exposed, was far richer colour, more exquisite texture than

the under, and they slowly half lifted and drooped again. 

Mrs. Comstock turned her face to Philip.

"Am I an old fool, or do you feel it, too?" she half whispered.

"You are wiser than you ever have been before,"

answered he.  "I feel it, also."

"And I," breathed Elnora.

The moth spread its wings, shivered them tremulously,

opening and closing them rapidly.  Philip handed the box

to Elnora.

She shook her head.

"I can't take that one," she said.  "Give her freedom."

"But, Elnora," protested Mrs. Comstock, "I don't want to

let her go.  She's mine.  She's the first one I ever found

this way.  Can't you put her in a big box, and let her live,

without hurting her?  I can't bear to let her go.  I want

to learn all about her."

"Then watch while we gather these on the trees," said Elnora. 

"We will take her home until night and then decide what to do. 

She won't fly for a long time yet."

Mrs. Comstock settled on the ground, gazing at the moth. 

Elnora and Philip went to the baited trees, placing

several large moths and a number of smaller ones in the

cyanide jar, and searching the bushes beyond where they

found several paired specimens of differing families. 

When they returned Elnora showed her mother how to

hold her hand before the moth so that it would climb upon

her fingers.  Then they started back to the cabin, Elnora

and Philip leading the way; Mrs. Comstock followed

slowly, stepping with great care lest she stumble and

injure the moth.  Her face wore a look of comprehension,

in her eyes was an exalted light.  On she came to the blue-

bordered pool lying beside her path.

A turtle scrambled from a log and splashed into the

water, while a red-wing shouted, "O-ka-lee!" to her. 

Mrs. Comstock paused and looked intently at the slime-

covered quagmire, framed in a flower riot and homed over

by sweet-voiced birds.  Then she gazed at the thing of

incomparable beauty clinging to her fingers and said softly: 

"If you had known about wonders like these in the days of

your youth, Robert Comstock, could you ever have done what

you did?"

Elnora missed her mother, and turning to look for her,

saw her standing beside the pool.  Would the old

fascination return?  A panic of fear seized the girl. 

She went back swiftly.

"Are you afraid she is going?" Elnora asked.  "If you are,

cup your other hand over her for shelter.  Carrying her

through this air and in the hot sunshine will dry her wings

and make them ready for flight very quickly.  You can't trust

her in such air and light as you can in the cool dark woods."

While she talked she took hold of her mother's sleeve,

anxiously smiling a pitiful little smile that Mrs.

Comstock understood.  Philip set his load at the back door,

returning to hold open the garden gate for Elnora and

Mrs. Comstock.  He reached it in time to see them standing

together beside the pool.  The mother bent swiftly and

kissed the girl on the lips.  Philip turned and was busily

hunting moths on the raspberry bushes when they reached

the gate.  And so excellent are the rewards of attending

your own business, that he found a Promethea on a lilac

in a corner; a moth of such rare wine-coloured, velvety

shades that it almost sent Mrs. Comstock to her knees again. 

But this one was fully developed, able to fly, and had to

be taken into the cabin hurriedly.  Mrs. Comstock stood in

the middle of the room holding up her Regalis.

"Now what must I do?" she asked.

Elnora glanced at Philip Ammon.  Their eyes met and

both of them smiled; he with amusement at the tall, spare

figure, with dark eyes and white crown, asking the childish

question so confidingly; and Elnora with pride.  She was

beginning to appreciate the character of her mother.

"How would you like to sit and see her finish development? 

I'll get dinner," proposed the girl.

After they had dined, Philip and Elnora carried the dishes

to the kitchen, brought out boxes, sheets of cork, pins,

ink, paper slips and everything necessary for mounting and

classifying the moths they had taken.  When the housework

was finished Mrs. Comstock with her ruffle sat near,

watching and listening.  She remembered all they said

that she understood, and when uncertain she asked questions. 

Occasionally she laid down her work to straighten some

flower which needed attention or to search the garden for

a bug for the grosbeak.  In one of these absences Elnora

said to Philip:  "These replace quite a number of the moths I

lost for the man of India.  With a week of such luck,

I could almost begin to talk college again."

"There is no reason why you should not have the week

and the luck," said he.  "I have taken moths until the

middle of August, though I suspect one is more likely to

find late ones in the north where it is colder than here. 

The next week is hay-time, but we can count on a few

double-brooders and strays, and by working the exchange method

for all it is worth, I think we can complete the collection again."

"You almost make me hope," said Elnora, "but I must

not allow myself.  I don't truly think I can replace all I

lost, not even with your help.  If I could, I scarcely see my

way clear to leave mother this winter.  I have found her

so recently, and she is so precious, I can't risk losing

her again.  I am going to take the nature position in the

Onabasha schools, and I shall be most happy doing the work. 

Only, these are a temptation."

"I wish you might go to college this fall with the other

girls," said Philip.  "I feel that if you don't you never will. 

Isn't there some way?"

"I can't see it if there is, and I really don't want to

leave mother."

"Well, mother is mighty glad to hear it," said Mrs.

Comstock, entering the arbour.

Philip noticed that her face was pale, her lips quivering,

her voice cold.

"I was telling your daughter that she should go to

college this winter," he explained, "but she says she

doesn't want to leave you."

"If she wants to go, I wish she could," said Mrs. Comstock,

a look of relief spreading over her face.

"Oh, all girls want to go to college," said Philip.  "It's the

only proper place to learn bridge and embroidery; not to

mention midnight lunches of mixed pickles and fruit cake,

and all the delights of the sororities."

"I have thought for years of going to college," said

Elnora, "but I never thought of any of those things."

"That is because your education in fudge and bridge has

been sadly neglected," said Philip.  "You should hear my

sister Polly!  This was her final year!  Lunches and

sororities were all I heard her mention, until Tom Levering

came on deck; now he is the leading subject.  I can't

see from her daily conversation that she knows half as

much really worth knowing as you do, but she's ahead of

you miles on fun."

"Oh, we had some good times in the high school," said Elnora. 

"Life hasn't been all work and study.  Is Edith Carr a

college girl?"

"No.  She is the very selectest kind of a private boarding-

school girl."

"Who is she?" asked Mrs. Comstock.

Philip opened his lips.

"She is a girl in Chicago, that Mr. Ammon knows very

well," said Elnora.  "She is beautiful and rich, and a

friend of his sister's.  Or, didn't you say that?"

"I don't remember, but she is," said Philip.  "This moth

needs an alcohol bath to remove the dope."

"Won't the down come, too?" asked Elnora anxiously.

"No.  You watch and you will see it come out, as

Polly would say, `a perfectly good' moth."

"Is your sister younger than you?" inquired Elnora.

"Yes," said Philip, "but she is three years older than you. 

She is the dearest sister in all the world.  I'd love

to see her now."

"Why don't you send for her," suggested Elnora. 

"Perhaps she'd like to help us catch moths."

"Yes, I think Polly in a Virot hat, Picot embroidered

frock and three-inch heels would take more moths than

any one who ever tried the Limberlost," laughed Philip.

"Well, you find many of them, and you are her brother."

"Yes, but that is different.  Father was reared in

Onabasha, and he loved the country.  He trained me his

way and mother took charge of Polly.  I don't quite

understand it.  Mother is a great home body herself,

but she did succeed in making Polly strictly ornamental."

"Does Tom Levering need a `strictly ornamental' girl?"

"You are too matter of fact!  Too `strictly' material. 

He needs a darling girl who will love him plenty, and Polly

is that."

"Well, then, does the Limberlost need a `strictly ornamental' girl?"

"No!" cried Philip.  "You are ornament enough for

the Limberlost.  I have changed my mind.  I don't want

Polly here.  She would not enjoy catching moths, or anything

we do."

"She might," persisted Elnora.  "You are her brother,

and surely you care for these things."

"The argument does not hold," said Philip.  "Polly and

I do not like the same things when we are at home, but we

are very fond of each other.  The member of my family

who would go crazy about this is my father.  I wish he

could come, if only for a week.  I'd send for him, but he is

tied up in preparing some papers for a great corporation

case this summer.  He likes the country.  It was his vote

that brought me here."

Philip leaned back against the arbour, watching the

grosbeak as it hunted food between a tomato vine and a

day lily.  Elnora set him to making labels, and when he

finished them he asked permission to write a letter. 

He took no pains to conceal his page, and from where she

sat opposite him, Elnora could not look his way without

reading:  "My dearest Edith."  He wrote busily for a time

and then sat staring across the garden.

"Have you run out of material so quickly?" asked Elnora.

"That's about it," said Philip.  "I have said that I am

getting well as rapidly as possible, that the air is fine, the

folks at Uncle Doc's all well, and entirely too good to me;

that I am spending most of my time in the country helping

catch moths for a collection, which is splendid exercise;

now I can't think of another thing that will be interesting."

There was a burst of exquisite notes in the maple.

"Put in the grosbeak," suggested Elnora.  "Tell her

you are so friendly with him you feed him potato bugs."

Philip lowered the pen to the sheet, bent forward,

then hesitated.

"Blest if I do!" he cried.  "She'd think a grosbeak was

a depraved person with a large nose.  She'd never dream

that it was a black-robed lover, with a breast of snow and

a crimson heart.  She doesn't care for hungry babies and

potato bugs.  I shall write that to father.  He will find

it delightful."

Elnora deftly picked up a moth, pinned it and placed its wings. 

She straightened the antennae, drew each leg into position

and set it in perfectly lifelike manner.  As she lifted her

work to see if she had it right, she glanced at Philip. 

He was still frowning and hesitating over the paper.

"I dare you to let me dictate a couple of paragraphs."

"Done!" cried Philip.  "Go slowly enough that I can write it."

Elnora laughed gleefully.

"I am writing this," she began, "in an old grape arbour

in the country, near a log cabin where I had my dinner. 

From where I sit I can see directly into the home of the

next-door neighbour on the west.  His name is R. B. Grosbeak. 

From all I have seen of him, he is a gentleman of the old

school; the oldest school there is, no doubt.  He always

wears a black suit and cap and a white vest, decorated with

one large red heart, which I think must be the emblem of

some ancient order.  I have been here a number of times,

and I never have seen him wear anything else, or his wife

appear in other than a brown dress with touches of white.

"It has appealed to me at times that she was a shade

neglectful of her home duties, but he does not seem to

feel that way.  He cheerfully stays in the sitting-room,

while she is away having a good time, and sings while

he cares for the four small children.  I must tell you about

his music.  I am sure he never saw inside a conservatory. 

I think he merely picked up what he knows by ear and without

vocal training, but there is a tenderness in his tones,

a depth of pure melody, that I never have heard surpassed. 

It may be that I think more of his music than that of some

other good vocalists hereabout, because I see more of him

and appreciate his devotion to his home life.

"I just had an encounter with him at the west fence,

and induced him to carry a small gift to his children. 

When I see the perfect harmony in which he lives, and

the depth of content he and the brown lady find in life,

I am almost persuaded to--  Now this is going to be

poetry," said Elnora.  "Move your pen over here and

begin with a quote and a cap."

Philip's face had been an interesting study while he

wrote her sentences.  Now he gravely set the pen where

she indicated, and Elnora dictated--

          "Buy a nice little home in the country,

           And settle down there for life."

"That's the truth!" cried Philip.  "It's as big a temptation as

I ever had.  Go on!"

"That's all," said Elnora.  "You can finish.  The moths

are done.  I am going hunting for whatever I can find for

the grades."

"Wait a minute," begged Philip.  "I am going, too."

"No.  You stay with mother and finish your letter."

"It is done.  I couldn't add anything to that."

"Very well!  Sign your name and come on.  But I

forgot to tell you all the bargain.  Maybe you won't send

the letter when you hear that.  The remainder is that

you show me the reply to my part of it."

"Oh, that's easy!  I wouldn't have the slightest objection

to showing you the whole letter."

He signed his name, folded the sheets and slipped them

into his pocket.

"Where are we going and what do we take?"

"Will you go, mother?" asked Elnora.

"I have a little work that should be done," said

Mrs. Comstock.  "Could you spare me?  Where do you want

to go?"

"We will go down to Aunt Margaret's and see her a

few minutes and get Billy.  We will be back in time

for supper."

Mrs. Comstock smiled as she watched them down the road. 

What a splendid-looking pair of young creatures they were! 

How finely proportioned, how full of vitality!  Then her

face grew troubled as she saw them in earnest conversation. 

Just as she was wishing she had not trusted her precious

girl with so much of a stranger, she saw Elnora stoop to

lift a branch and peer under.  The mother grew content. 

Elnora was thinking only of her work.  She was to be

trusted utterly.

CHAPTER XVI

WHEREIN THE LIMBERLOST SINGS FOR PHILIP,

AND THE TALKING TREES TELL GREAT SECRETS

A few days later Philip handed Elnora a sheet

of paper and she read:  "In your condition I

should think the moth hunting and life at that

cabin would be very good for you, but for any sake keep

away from that Grosbeak person, and don't come home

with your head full of granger ideas.  No doubt he has a

remarkable voice, but I can't bear untrained singers, and

don't you get the idea that a June song is perennial. 

You are not hearing the music he will make when the

four babies have the scarlet fever and the measles, and

the gadding wife leaves him at home to care for them then. 

Poor soul, I pity her!  How she exists where rampant

cows bellow at you, frogs croak, mosquitoes consume

you, the butter goes to oil in summer and bricks in winter,

while the pump freezes every day, and there is no

earthly amusement, and no society!  Poor things! 

Can't you influence him to move?  No wonder she gads when

she has a chance!  I should die.  If you are thinking

of settling in the country, think also of a woman who

is satisfied with white and brown to accompany you! 

Brown!  Of all deadly colours!  I should go mad in brown."

Elnora laughed while she read.  Her face was dimpling,

as she returned the sheet.  "Who's ahead?" she asked.

"Who do you think?" he parried.

"She is," said Elnora.  "Are you going to tell her

in your next that R. B. Grosbeak is a bird, and that he

probably will spend the winter in a wild plum thicket

in Tennessee?"

"No," said Philip.  "I shall tell her that I understand her

ideas of life perfectly, and, of course, I never

shall ask her to deal with oily butter and frozen pumps--"

"--and measley babies," interpolated Elnora.

"Exactly!" said Philip.  "At the same time I find so

much to counterbalance those things, that I should not

object to bearing them myself, in view of the recompense. 

Where do we go and what do we do to-day?"

"We will have to hunt beside the roads and around the

edge of the Limberlost to-day," said Elnora.  "Mother is

making strawberry preserves, and she can't come until

she finishes.  Suppose we go down to the swamp and

I'll show you what is left of the flower-room that

Terence O'More, the big lumber man of Great Rapids,

made when he was a homeless boy here.  Of course,

you have heard the story?"

"Yes, and I've met the O'Mores who are frequently

in Chicago society.  They have friends there.  I think

them one ideal couple."

"That sounds as if they might be the only one," said

Elnora, "and, indeed, they are not.  I know dozens. 

Aunt Margaret and Uncle Wesley are another, the Brownlees

another, and my mathematics professor and his wife.

The world is full of happy people, but no one ever hears

of them.  You must fight and make a scandal to get into

the papers.  No one knows about all the happy people.

I am happy myself, and look how perfectly inconspicuous

I am."

"You only need go where you will be seen," began

Philip, when he remembered and finished.  "What do

we take to-day?"

"Ourselves," said Elnora.  "I have a vagabond streak in

my blood and it's in evidence.  I am going to show you

where real flowers grow, real birds sing, and if I feel quite

right about it, perhaps I shall raise a note or two myself."

"Oh, do you sing?" asked Philip politely.

"At times," answered Elnora.  "`As do the birds;

because I must,' but don't be scared.  The mood does

not possess me often.  Perhaps I shan't raise a note."

They went down the road to the swamp, climbed the

snake fence, followed the path to the old trail and then

turned south upon it.  Elnora indicated to Philip the

trail with remnants of sagging barbed wire.

"It was ten years ago," she said.  "I was a little school

girl, but I wandered widely even then, and no one cared. 

I saw him often.  He had been in a city institution all his

life, when he took the job of keeping timber thieves out of

this swamp, before many trees had been cut.  It was a

strong man's work, and he was a frail boy, but he grew

hardier as he lived out of doors.  This trail we are on is

the path his feet first wore, in those days when he was

insane with fear and eaten up with loneliness, but he stuck

to his work and won out.  I used to come down to the road

and creep among the bushes as far as I dared, to watch

him pass.  He walked mostly, at times he rode a wheel.

"Some days his face was dreadfully sad, others it was

so determined a little child could see the force in it, and

once he was radiant.  That day the Swamp Angel was

with him.  I can't tell you what she was like.  I never

saw any one who resembled her.  He stopped close here

to show her a bird's nest.  Then they went on to a sort of

flower-room he had made, and he sang for her.  By the

time he left, I had gotten bold enough to come out on

the trail, and I met the big Scotchman Freckles lived with. 

He saw me catching moths and butterflies, so he took me

to the flower-room and gave me everything there. 

I don't dare come alone often, so I can't keep it up as

he did, but you can see something of how it was."

Elnora led the way and Philip followed.  The outlines

of the room were not distinct, because many of the

trees were gone, but Elnora showed how it had been as

nearly as she could.

"The swamp is almost ruined now," she said.  "The maples,

walnuts, and cherries are all gone.  The talking trees

are the only things left worth while."

"The `talking trees!'  I don't understand," commented Philip.

"No wonder!" laughed Elnora.  "They are my discovery. 

You know all trees whisper and talk during the summer,

but there are two that have so much to say they keep on

the whole winter, when the others are silent.  The beeches

and oaks so love to talk, they cling to their dead,

dry leaves.  In the winter the winds are stiffest

and blow most, so these trees whisper, chatter, sob,

laugh, and at times roar until the sound is deafening. 

They never cease until new leaves come out in the spring

to push off the old ones.  I love to stand beneath them

with my ear to the trunks, interpreting what they say

to fit my moods.  The beeches branch low, and their

leaves are small so they only know common earthly things;

but the oaks run straight above almost all other trees

before they branch, their arms are mighty, their leaves large. 

They meet the winds that travel around the globe, and from

them learn the big things."

Philip studied the girls face.  "What do the beeches

tell you, Elnora?" he asked gently.

"To be patient, to be unselfish, to do unto others as

I would have them do to me."

"And the oaks?"

"They say `be true,' `live a clean life,' `send your soul

up here and the winds of the world will teach it what

honour achieves.'"

"Wonderful secrets, those!" marvelled Philip.  "Are they

telling them now?  Could I hear?"

"No.  They are only gossiping now.  This is play-time. 

They tell the big secrets to a white world, when the

music inspires them."

"The music?"

"All other trees are harps in the winter.  Their trunks are

the frames, their branches the strings, the winds the musicians. 

When the air is cold and clear, the world very white, and

the harp music swelling, then the talking trees tell the

strengthening, uplifting things."

"You wonderful girl!" cried Philip.  "What a woman

you will be!"

"If I am a woman at all worth while, it will be because

I have had such wonderful opportunities," said Elnora. 

"Not every girl is driven to the forest to learn what God

has to say there.  Here are the remains of Freckles's room. 

The time the Angel came here he sang to her, and I listened. 

I never heard music like that.  No wonder she loved him. 

Every one who knew him did, and they do yet.  Try that

log, it makes a fairly good seat.  This old store box

was his treasure house, just as it's now mine.  I will

show you my dearest possession.  I do not dare take

it home because mother can't overcome her dislike for it. 

It was my father's, and in some ways I am like him. 

This is the strongest."

Elnora lifted the violin and began to play.  She wore

a school dress of green gingham, with the sleeves rolled to

the elbows.  She seemed a part of the setting all around her. 

Her head shone like a small dark sun, and her face never

had seemed so rose-flushed and fair.  From the instant

she drew the bow, her lips parted and her eyes turned

toward something far away in the swamp, and never did

she give more of that impression of feeling for her notes

and repeating something audible only to her.  Philip was

too close to get the best effect.  He arose and stepped back

several yards, leaning against a large tree, looking and

listening intently.

As he changed positions he saw that Mrs. Comstock had

followed them, and was standing on the trail, where she

could not have helped hearing everything Elnora had said.

So to Philip before her and the mother watching on the

trail, Elnora played the Song of the Limberlost.  It seemed

as if the swamp hushed all its other voices and spoke

only through her dancing bow.  The mother out on the

trail had heard it all, once before from the girl, many

times from her father.  To the man it was a revelation. 

He stood so stunned he forgot Mrs. Comstock.  He tried

to realize what a city audience would say to that music,

from such a player, with a similar background, and he

could not imagine.

He was wondering what he dared say, how much he might

express, when the last note fell and the girl laid the

violin in the case, closed the door, locked it and hid the

key in the rotting wood at the end of a log.  Then she came

to him.  Philip stood looking at her curiously.

"I wonder," he said, "what people would say to that?"

"I played that in public once," said Elnora.  "I think

they liked it, fairly well.  I had a note yesterday offering

me the leadership of the high school orchestra in Onabasha. 

I can take it as well as not.  None of my talks to the

grades come the first thing in the morning.  I can play

a few minutes in the orchestra and reach the rooms in

plenty of time.  It will be more work that I love, and like

finding the money.  I would gladly play for nothing,

merely to be able to express myself."

"With some people it makes a regular battlefield of the

human heart--this struggle for self-expression," said Philip. 

"You are going to do beautiful work in the world, and do

it well.  When I realize that your violin belonged to your

father, that he played it before you were born, and

it no doubt affected your mother strongly, and then couple

with that the years you have roamed these fields and

swamps finding in nature all you had to lavish your heart

upon, I can see how you evolved.  I understand what you

mean by self-expression.  I know something of what you

have to express.  The world never so wanted your message

as it does now.  It is hungry for the things you know. 

I can see easily how your position came to you.  What you

have to give is taught in no college, and I am not sure but

you would spoil yourself if you tried to run your mind

through a set groove with hundreds of others.  I never

thought I should say such a thing to any one, but I do say

to you, and I honestly believe it; give up the college idea. 

Your mind does not need that sort of development.  Stick close

to your work in the woods.  You are becoming so infinitely

greater on it, than the best college girl I ever knew,

that there is no comparison.  When you have money to

spend, take that violin and go to one of the world's great

masters and let the Limberlost sing to him; if he thinks he

can improve it, very well.  I have my doubts."

"Do you really mean that you would give up all idea of

going to college, in my place?"

"I really mean it," said Philip.  "If I now held the

money in my hands to send you, and could give it to you

in some way you would accept I would not.  I do not

know why it is the fate of the world always to want

something different from what life gives them.  If you

only could realize it, my girl, you are in college, and

have been always.  You are in the school of experience,

and it has taught you to think, and given you a heart. 

God knows I envy the man who wins it!  You have been in

the college of the Limberlost all your life, and I never

met a graduate from any other institution who could begin

to compare with you in sanity, clarity, and interesting knowledge. 

I wouldn't even advise you to read too many books on your lines. 

You acquire your material first hand, and you know that

you are right.  What you should do is to begin early

to practise self-expression.  Don't wait too long to tell us

about the woods as you know them."

"Follow the course of the Bird Woman, you mean?"

asked Elnora.

"In your own way; with your own light.  She won't

live forever.  You are younger, and you will be ready

to begin where she ends.  The swamp has given you all

you need so far; now you give it to the world in payment. 

College be confounded!  Go to work and show people

what there is in you!"

Not until then did he remember Mrs. Comstock.

"Should we go out to the trail and see if your mother is

coming?" he asked.

"Here she is now," said Elnora.  "Gracious, it's a mercy

I got that violin put away in time!  I didn't expect her

so soon," whispered the girl as she turned and went

toward her mother.  Mrs. Comstock's expression was peculiar

as she looked at Elnora.

"I forgot that you were making sun-preserves and they

didn't require much cooking," she said.  "We should have

waited for you."

"Not at all!" answered Mrs. Comstock.  "Have you

found anything yet?"

"Nothing that I can show you," said Elnora.  "I am

almost sure I have found an idea that will revolutionize

the whole course of my work, thought, and ambitions."

"`Ambitions!'  My, what a hefty word!" laughed Mrs. Comstock. 

"Now who would suspect a little red-haired country girl

of harbouring such a deadly germ in her body?  Can you tell

mother about it?"

"Not if you talk to me that way, I can't," said Elnora.

"Well, I guess we better let ambition lie.  I've always

heard it was safest asleep.  If you ever get a bona fide

attack, it will be time to attend it.  Let's hunt specimens. 

It is June.  Philip and I are in the grades.  You have an

hour to put an idea into our heads that will stick for a lifetime,

and grow for good.  That's the way I look at your job.  Now, what

are you going to give us?  We don't want any old silly stuff

that has been hashed over and over, we want a big new idea

to plant in our hearts.  Come on, Miss Teacher, what is the

boiled-down, double-distilled essence of June?  Give it to

us strong.  We are large enough to furnish it developing ground. 

Hurry up!  Time is short and we are waiting.  What is the

miracle of June?  What one thing epitomizes the whole month,

and makes it just a little different from any other?"

"The birth of these big night moths," said Elnora promptly.

Philip clapped his hands.  The tears started to Mrs.

Comstock's eyes.  She took Elnora in her arms, and kissed

her forehead.

"You'll do!" she said.  "June is June, not because it

has bloom, bird, fruit, or flower, exclusive to it alone.

It's half May and half July in all of them.  But to me,

it's just June, when it comes to these great, velvet-winged

night moths which sweep its moonlit skies, consummating

their scheme of creation, and dropping like a bloomed-

out flower.  Give them moths for June.  Then make that

the basis of your year's work.  Find the distinctive feature

of each month, the one thing which marks it a time apart,

and hit them squarely between the eyes with it.  Even the

babies of the lowest grades can comprehend moths when

they see a few emerge, and learn their history, as it can be

lived before them.  You should show your specimens in

pairs, then their eggs, the growing caterpillars, and then

the cocoons.  You want to dig out the red heart of every

month in the year, and hold it pulsing before them.

"I can't name all of them off-hand, but I think of one

more right now.  February belongs to our winter birds. 

It is then the great horned owl of the swamp courts his

mate, the big hawks pair, and even the crows begin to

take notice.  These are truly our birds.  Like the poor

we have them always with us.  You should hear the musicians

of this swamp in February, Philip, on a mellow night. 

Oh, but they are in earnest!  For twenty-one years I've

listened by night to the great owls, all the smaller sizes,

the foxes, coons, and every resident left in these woods,

and by day to the hawks, yellow-hammers, sap-suckers,

titmice, crows, and other winter birds.  Only just now it's

come to me that the distinctive feature of February is not

linen bleaching, nor sugar making; it's the love month of our

very own birds.  Give them hawks and owls for February, Elnora."

With flashing eyes the girl looked at Philip.  "How's that?"

she said.  "Don't you think I will succeed, with such help? 

You should hear the concert she is talking about!  It is

simply indescribable when the ground is covered with snow,

and the moonlight white."

"It's about the best music we have," said Mrs. Comstock. 

"I wonder if you couldn't copy that and make a strong,

original piece out of it for your violin, Elnora?"

There was one tense breath, then----  "I could try," said

Elnora simply.

Philip rushed to the rescue.  "We must go to work," he

said, and began examining a walnut branch for Luna moth eggs. 

Elnora joined him while Mrs. Comstock drew her embroidery

from her pocket and sat on a log.  She said she was tired,

they could come for her when they were ready to go. 

She could hear their voices around her until she called

them at supper time.  When they came to her she stood

waiting on the trail, the sewing in one hand, the

violin in the other.  Elnora became very white, but

followed the trail without a word.  Philip, unable to see

a woman carry a heavier load than he, reached for

the instrument.  Mrs. Comstock shook her head.  She carried

the violin home, took it into her room and closed the door. 

Elnora turned to Philip.

"If she destroys that, I shall die!" cried the girl.

"She won't!" said Philip.  "You misunderstand her. 

She wouldn't have said what she did about the owls, if

she had meant to.  She is your mother.  No one loves

you as she does.  Trust her!  Myself--I think she's

simply great!"

Mrs. Comstock returned with serene face, and all of

them helped with the supper.  When it was over Philip

and Elnora sorted and classified the afternoon's specimens,

and made a trip to the woods to paint and light several

trees for moths.  When they came back Mrs. Comstock

sat in the arbour, and they joined her.  The moonlight

was so intense, print could have been read by it. 

The damp night air held odours near to earth, making

flower and tree perfume strong.  A thousand insects were

serenading, and in the maple the grosbeak occasionally

said a reassuring word to his wife, while she answered

that all was well.  A whip-poor-will wailed in the swamp and

beside the blue-bordered pool a chat complained disconsolately. 

Mrs. Comstock went into the cabin, but she returned immediately,

laying the violin and bow across Elnora's lap.  "I wish you

would give us a little music," she said.

CHAPTER XVII

WHEREIN MRS. COMSTOCK DANCES IN THE MOONLIGHT,

AND ELNORA MAKES A CONFESSION

Billy was swinging in the hammock, at peace with himself

and all the world, when he thought he heard something. 

He sat bolt upright, his eyes staring.  Once he opened

his lips, then thought again and closed them. 

The sound persisted.  Billy vaulted the fence,

and ran down the road with his queer sidewise hop. 

When he neared the Comstock cabin, he left the

warm dust of the highway and stepped softly at slower

pace over the rank grasses of the roadside.  He had

heard aright.  The violin was in the grape arbour,

singing a perfect jumble of everything, poured out in

an exultant tumult.  The strings were voicing the joy of

a happy girl heart.

Billy climbed the fence enclosing the west woods and

crept toward the arbour.  He was not a spy and not a sneak. 

He merely wanted to satisfy his child-heart as to

whether Mrs. Comstock was at home, and Elnora at last

playing her loved violin with her mother's consent. 

One peep sufficed.  Mrs. Comstock sat in the moonlight,

her head leaning against the arbour; on her face was a

look of perfect peace and contentment.  As he stared at

her the bow hesitated a second and Mrs. Comstock spoke:

"That's all very melodious and sweet," she said, "but I

do wish you could play Money Musk and some of the

tunes I danced as a girl."

Elnora had been carefully avoiding every note that

might be reminiscent of her father.  At the words she

laughed softly and began "Turkey in the Straw." 

An instant later Mrs. Comstock was dancing in the

moon light.  Ammon sprang to her side, caught her in

his arms, while to Elnora's laughter and the violin's

impetus they danced until they dropped panting on the

arbour bench.

Billy scarcely knew when he reached the road.  His light

feet barely touched the soft way, so swiftly he flew. 

He vaulted the fence and burst into the house.

"Aunt Margaret!  Uncle Wesley!" he screamed.  "Listen! 

Listen!  She's playing it!  Elnora's playing her violin

at home!  And Aunt Kate is dancing like anything

before the arbour!  I saw her in the moonlight!  I ran down! 

Oh, Aunt Margaret!"

Billy fled sobbing to Margaret's breast.

"Why Billy!" she chided.  "Don't cry, you little dunce! 

That's what we've all prayed for these many years; but

you must be mistaken about Kate.  I can't believe it."

Billy lifted his head.  "Well, you just have to!" he said. 

"When I say I saw anything, Uncle Wesley knows I did. 

The city man was dancing with her.  They danced together

and Elnora laughed.  But it didn't look funny to me;

I was scared."

"Who was it said `wonders never cease,'" asked Wesley. 

"You mark my word, once you get Kate Comstock started,

you can't stop her.  There's a wagon load of penned-up

force in her.  Dancing in the moonlight!  Well, I'll

be hanged!"

Billy was at his side instantly.  "Whoever does it will

have to hang me, too," he cried.

Sinton threw his arm around Billy and drew him closely. 

"Tell us all about it, son," he said.  Billy told.  "And when

Elnora just stopped a breath, `Can't you play some

of the old things I knew when I was a girl?' said her ma. 

Then Elnora began to do a thing that made you want to

whirl round and round, and quicker 'an scat there was her

ma a-whirling.  The city man, he ups and grabs her and

whirls, too, and back in the woods I was going just like

they did.  Elnora begins to laugh, and I ran to tell you,

cos I knew you'd like to know.  Now, all the world is

right, ain't it?" ended Billy in supreme satisfaction.

"You just bet it is!" said Wesley.

Billy looked steadily at Margaret.  "Is it, Aunt Margaret?"

Margaret Sinton smiled at him bravely.

An hour later when Billy was ready to climb the stairs

to his room, he went to Margaret to say good night. 

He leaned against her an instant, then brought his lips

to her ear.  "Wish I could get your little girls back

for you!" he whispered and dashed toward the stairs.

Down at the Comstock cabin the violin played on until

Elnora was so tired she scarcely could lift the bow. 

Then Philip went home.  The women walked to the gate

with him, and stood watching him from sight.

"That's what I call one decent young man!" said

Mrs. Comstock.  "To see him fit in with us, you'd think

he'd been brought up in a cabin; but it's likely he's

always had the very cream o' the pot."

"Yes, I think so," laughed Elnora, "but it hasn't

hurt him.  I've never seen anything I could criticise. 

He's teaching me so much, unconsciously.  You know

he graduated from Harvard, and has several degrees in law. 

He's coming in the morning, and we are going to put in a

big day on Catocalae."

"Which is----?"

"Those gray moths with wings that fold back like big

flies, and they appear as if they had been carved from

old wood.  Then, when they fly, the lower wings flash

out and they are red and black, or gold and black, or

pink and black, or dozens of bright, beautiful colours

combined with black.  No one ever has classified all

of them and written their complete history, unless the

Bird Woman is doing it now.  She wants everything

she can get about them."

"I remember," said Mrs. Comstock.  "They are mighty

pretty things.  I've started up slews of them from the

vines covering the logs, all my life.  I must be cautious

and catch them after this, but they seem powerful spry. 

I might get hold of something rare."  She thought

intently and added, "And wouldn't know it if I did. 

It would just be my luck.  I've had the rarest thing on

earth in reach this many a day and only had the wit to

cinch it just as it was going.  I'll bet I don't let

anything else escape me."

Next morning Philip came early, and he and Elnora

went at once to the fields and woods.  Mrs. Comstock

had come to believe so implicitly in him that she now

stayed at home to complete the work before she joined

them, and when she did she often sat sewing, leaving

them wandering hours at a time.  It was noon before

she finished, and then she packed a basket of lunch. 

She found Elnora and Philip near the violet patch, which

was still in its prime.  They all lunched together in the

shade of a wild crab thicket, with flowers spread at their

feet, and the gold orioles streaking the air with flashes

of light and trailing ecstasy behind them, while the red-

wings, as always, asked the most impertinent questions. 

Then Mrs. Comstock carried the basket back to the cabin,

and Philip and Elnora sat on a log, resting a few minutes. 

They had unexpected luck, and both were eager to continue

the search.

"Do you remember your promise about these violets?"

asked he.  "To-morrow is Edith's birthday, and if I'd

put them special delivery on the morning train, she'd

get them in the late afternoon.  They ought to keep

that long.  She leaves for the North next day."

"Of  course, you may have them," said Elnora.  "We will

quit long enough before supper to gather a large bunch. 

They can be packed so they will carry all right. 

They should be perfectly fresh, especially if we gather

them this evening and let them drink all night."

Then they went back to hunt Catocalae.  It was a

long and a happy search.  It led them into new,

unexplored nooks of the woods, past a red-poll nest,

and where goldfinches prospected for thistledown for

the cradles they would line a little later.  It led

them into real forest, where deep, dark pools lay,

where the hermit thrush and the wood robin extracted

the essence from all other bird melody, and poured it

out in their pure bell-tone notes.  It seemed as if

every old gray tree-trunk, slab of loose bark, and

prostrate log yielded the flashing gray treasures;

while of all others they seemed to take alarm most

easily, and be most difficult to capture.

Philip came to Elnora at dusk, daintily holding one

by the body, its dark wings showing and its long slender

legs trying to clasp his fingers and creep from his hold.

"Oh for mercy's sake!" cried Elnora, staring at him.

"I half believe it!" exulted Ammon.

"Did you ever see one?"

"Only in collections, and very seldom there."

Elnora studied the black wings intently.  "I surely

believe that's Sappho," she marvelled.  "The Bird Woman

will be overjoyed."

"We must get the cyanide jar quickly," said Philip.

"I wouldn't lose her for anything.  Such a chase as she

led me!"

Elnora brought the jar and began gathering up paraphernalia.

"When you make a find like that," she said, "it's the

right time to quit and feel glorious all the rest of

that day.  I tell you I'm proud!  We will go now.  We have

barely time to carry out our plans before supper. 

Won't mother be pleased to see that we have a rare one?"

"I'd like to see any one more pleased than I am!" said

Philip Ammon.  "I feel as if I'd earned my supper to-night. 

Let's go."

He took the greater part of the load and stepped aside

for Elnora to precede him.  She followed the path, broken

by the grazing cattle, toward the cabin and nearest the

violet patch she stopped, laid down her net, and the things

she carried.  Philip passed her and hurried straight

toward the back gate.

"Aren't you going to----?" began Elnora.

"I'm going to get this moth home in a hurry," he said. 

"This cyanide has lost its strength, and it's not

working well.  We need some fresh in the jar."

He had forgotten the violets!  Elnora stood looking

after him, a curious expression on her face.  One second

so--then she picked up the net and followed.  At the

blue-bordered pool she paused and half turned back, then

she closed her lips firmly and went on.  It was nine o'clock

when Philip said good-bye, and started to town.  His gay

whistle floated to them from the farthest corner of

the Limberlost.  Elnora complained of being tired, so she

went to her room and to bed.  But sleep would not come. 

Thought was racing in her brain and the longer she lay

the wider awake she grew.  At last she softly slipped from

bed, lighted her lamp and began opening boxes.  Then she

went to work.  Two hours later a beautiful birch bark

basket, strongly and artistically made, stood on her table. 

She set a tiny alarm clock at three, returned to bed and

fell asleep instantly with a smile on her lips.

She was on the floor with the first tinkle of the alarm,

and hastily dressing, she picked up the basket and a box

to fit it, crept down the stairs, and out to the violet patch. 

She was unafraid as it was growing light, and lining the

basket with damp mosses she swiftly began picking, with

practised hands, the best of the flowers.  She scarcely

could tell which were freshest at times, but day soon came

creeping over the Limberlost and peeped at her.  The robins

awoke all their neighbours, and a babel of bird notes

filled the air.  The dew was dripping, while the first strong

rays of light fell on a world in which Elnora worshipped. 

When the basket was filled to overflowing, she set it in the

stout pasteboard box, packed it solid with mosses, tied it

firmly and slipped under the cord a note she had written

the previous night.

Then she took a short cut across the woods and walked

swiftly to Onabasha.  It was after six o'clock, but all of

the city she wished to avoid were asleep.  She had no

trouble in finding a small boy out, and she stood at a

distance waiting while he rang Dr. Ammon's bell and

delivered the package for Philip to a maid, with the note

which was to be given him at once.

On the way home through the woods passing some baited

trees she collected the captive moths.  She entered

the kitchen with them so naturally that Mrs. Comstock

made no comment.  After breakfast Elnora went to her

room, cleared away all trace of the night's work and was

out in the arbour mounting moths when Philip came down

the road.  "I am tired sitting," she said to her mother. 

"I think I will walk a few rods and meet him."

"Who's a trump?" he called from afar.

"Not you!" retorted Elnora.  "Confess that you forgot!"

"Completely!" said Philip.  "But luckily it would not

have been fatal.  I wrote Polly last week to send Edith

something appropriate to-day, with my card.  But that

touch from the woods will be very effective.  Thank you

more than I can say.  Aunt Anna and I unpacked it to

see the basket, and it was a beauty.  She says you are

always doing such things."

"Well, I hope not!" laughed Elnora.  "If you'd seen

me sneaking out before dawn, not to awaken mother and

coming in with moths to make her think I'd been to the

trees, you'd know it was a most especial occasion."

"Then Philip understood two things:  Elnora's mother

did not know of the early morning trip to the city, and

the girl had come to meet him to tell him so.

"You were a brick to do it!" he whispered as he closed

the gate behind them.  "I'll never forget you for it. 

Thank you ever so much."

"I did not do that for you," said Elnora tersely.  "I did

it mostly to preserve my own self-respect.  I saw you

were forgetting.  If I did it for anything besides that,

I did it for her."

"Just look what I've brought!" said Philip, entering

the arbour and greeting Mrs. Comstock.  "Borrowed it

of the Bird Woman.  And it isn't hers.  A rare edition

of Catocalae with coloured plates.  I told her the best I

could, and she said to try for Sappho here.  I suspect the

Bird Woman will be out presently.  She was all excitement."

Then they bent over the book together and with the

mounted moth before them determined her family.  The Bird

Woman did come later, and carried the moth away, to put

into a book and Elnora and Philip were freshly filled

with enthusiasm.

So these days were the beginning of the weeks that followed. 

Six of them flying on Time's wings, each filled

to the brim with interest.  After June, the moth hunts

grew less frequent; the fields and woods were searched

for material for Elnora's grade work.  The most absorbing

occupation they found was in carrying out Mrs. Comstock's

suggestion to learn the vital thing for which each

month was distinctive, and make that the key to the

nature work.  They wrote out a list of the months,

opposite each the things all of them could suggest which seemed

to pertain to that month alone, and then tried to sift until

they found something typical.  Mrs. Comstock was a

great help.  Her mother had been Dutch and had brought

from Holland numerous quaint sayings and superstitions

easily traceable to Pliny's Natural History; and in Mrs.

Comstock's early years in Ohio she had heard much Indian

talk among her elders, so she knew the signs of each season,

and sometimes they helped.  Always her practical

thought and sterling common sense were useful.  When they

were afield until exhausted they came back to the

cabin for food, to prepare specimens and classify them,

and to talk over the day.  Sometimes Philip brought

books and read while Elnora and her mother worked,

and every night Mrs. Comstock asked for the violin. 

Her perfect hunger for music was sufficient evidence of how

she had suffered without it.  So the days crept by, golden,

filled with useful work and pure pleasure.

The grosbeak had led the family in the maple abroad

and a second brood, in a wild grape vine clambering over

the well, was almost ready for flight.  The dust lay thick

on the country roads, the days grew warmer; summer

was just poising to slip into fall, and Philip remained,

coming each day as if he had belonged there always.

One warm August afternoon Mrs. Comstock looked

up from the ruffle on which she was engaged to see

a blue-coated messenger enter the gate.

"Is Philip Ammon here?" asked the boy.

"He is," said Mrs. Comstock.

"I have a message for him."

"He is in the woods back of the cabin.  I will ring the bell. 

Do you know if it is important?"

"Urgent," said the boy; "I rode hard."

Mrs. Comstock stepped to the back door and clanged

the dinner bell sharply, paused a second, and rang again. 

In a short time Philip and Elnora ran down the path.

"Are you ill, mother?" cried Elnora.

Mrs. Comstock indicated the boy.  "There is an important

message for Philip," she said.

He muttered an excuse and tore open the telegram. 

His colour faded slightly.  "I have to take the first train,"

he said.  "My father is ill and I am needed."

He handed the sheet to Elnora.  "I have about two

hours, as I remember the trains north, but my things are

all over Uncle Doc's house, so I must go at once."

"Certainly," said Elnora, giving back the message. 

"Is there anything I can do to help?  Mother, bring

Philip a glass of buttermilk to start on.  I will gather

what you have here."

"Never mind.  There is nothing of importance.  I don't

want to be hampered.  I'll send for it if I miss anything

I need."

Philip drank the milk, said good-bye to Mrs. Comstock;

thanked her for all her kindness, and turned to Elnora.

"Will you walk to the edge of the Limberlost with me?"

he asked.  Elnora assented.  Mrs. Comstock followed

to the gate, urged him to come again soon, and repeated

her good-bye.  Then she went back to the arbour to

await Elnora's return.  As she watched down the road

she smiled softly.

"I had an idea he would speak to me first," she thought,

"but this may change things some.  He hasn't time. 

Elnora will come back a happy girl, and she has

good reason.  He is a model young man.  Her lot will

be very different from mine."

She picked up her embroidery and began setting dainty

precise little stitches, possible only to certain women.

On the road Elnora spoke first.  "I do hope it is

nothing serious," she said.  "Is he usually strong?"

"Quite strong," said Philip.  "I am not at all alarmed

but I am very much ashamed.  I have been well enough

for the past month to have gone home and helped him

with some critical cases that were keeping him at work

in this heat.  I was enjoying myself so I wouldn't offer

to go, and he would not ask me to come, so long as he could

help it.  I have allowed him to overtax himself until he

is down, and mother and Polly are north at our cottage. 

He's never been sick before, and it's probable I am to

blame that he is now."

"He intended you to stay this long when you came,"

urged Elnora.

"Yes, but it's hot in Chicago.  I should have

remembered him.  He is always thinking of me.  Possibly he

has needed me for days.  I am ashamed to go to him in

splendid condition and admit that I was having such a

fine time I forgot to come home."

"You have had a fine time, then?" asked Elnora.

They had reached the fence.  Philip vaulted over to

take a short cut across the fields.  He turned and looked

at her.

"The best, the sweetest, and most wholesome time

any man ever had in this world," he said.  "Elnora, if

I talked hours I couldn't make you understand what a

girl I think you are.  I never in all my life hated anything

as I hate leaving you.  It seems to me that I have not

strength to do it."

"If you have learned anything worth while from me,"

said Elnora, "that should be it.  Just to have strength to

go to your duty, and to go quickly."

He caught the hand she held out to him in both his. 

"Elnora, these days we have had together, have they

been sweet to you?"

"Beautiful days!" said Elnora.  "Each like a perfect

dream to be thought over and over all my life.  Oh, they

have been the only really happy days I've ever known;

these days rich with mother's love, and doing useful work

with your help.  Good-bye!  You must hurry!"

Philip gazed at her.  He tried to drop her hand, only

clutched it closer.  Suddenly he drew her toward him. 

"Elnora," he whispered, "will you kiss me good-bye?"

Elnora drew back and stared at him with wide eyes. 

"I'd strike you sooner!" she said.  "Have I ever said or

done anything in your presence that made you feel free to

ask that, Philip Ammon?"

"No!" panted Philip.  "No!  I think so much of you

I wanted to touch your lips once before I left you. 

You know, Elnora----"

"Don't distress yourself," said Elnora calmly.  "I am

broad enough to judge you sanely.  I know what you mean. 

It would be no harm to you.  It would not matter to me,

but here we will think of some one else.  Edith Carr

would not want your lips to-morrow if she knew they

had touched mine to-day.  I was wise to say:  `Go quickly!'"

Philip still clung to her.  "Will you write me?" he begged.

"No," said Elnora.  "There is nothing to say, save good-bye. 

We can do that now."

He held on.  "Promise that you will write me only one

letter," he urged.  "I want just one message from you to

lock in my desk, and keep always.  Promise you will

write once, Elnora."

She looked into his eyes, and smiled serenely.  "If the

talking trees tell me this winter, the secret of how a man

may grow perfect, I will write you what it is, Philip. 

In all the time I have known you, I never have liked you

so little.  Good-bye."

She drew away her hand and swiftly turned back to the road. 

Philip Ammon, wordless, started toward Onabasha on a run.

Elnora crossed the road, climbed the fence and sought

the shelter of their own woods.  She chose a diagonal

course and followed it until she came to the path leading

past the violet patch.  She went down this hurriedly. 

Her hands were clenched at her side, her eyes dry and

bright, her cheeks red-flushed, and her breath coming fast. 

When she reached the patch she turned into it and stood

looking around her.

The mosses were dry, the flowers gone, weeds a foot

high covered it.  She turned away and went on down the

path until she was almost in sight of the cabin.

Mrs. Comstock smiled and waited in the arbour until

it occurred to her that Elnora was a long time coming, so

she went to the gate.  The road stretched away toward

the Limberlost empty and lonely.  Then she knew that

Elnora had gone into their own woods and would come in

the back way.  She could not understand why the girl did

not hurry to her with what she would have to tell. 

She went out and wandered around the garden.  Then she

stepped into the path and started along the way leading to

the woods, past the pool now framed in a thick setting of

yellow lilies.  Then she saw, and stopped, gasping for breath. 

Her hands flew up and her lined face grew ghastly. 

She stared at the sky and then at the prostrate girl figure. 

Over and over she tried to speak, but only a dry breath came. 

She turned and fled back to the garden.

In the familiar enclosure she gazed around her like a

caged animal seeking escape.  The sun beat down on her

bare head mercilessly, and mechanically she moved to the

shade of a half-grown hickory tree that voluntarily had

sprouted beside the milk house.  At her feet lay an axe

with which she made kindlings for fires.  She stooped and

picked it up.  The memory of that prone figure sobbing in

the grass caught her with a renewed spasm.  She shut her

eyes as if to close it out.  That made hearing so acute she

felt certain she heard Elnora moaning beside the path. 

The eyes flew open.  They looked straight at a few

spindling tomato plants set too near the tree and stunted

by its shade.  Mrs. Comstock whirled on the hickory and

swung the axe.  Her hair shook down, her clothing became

disarranged, in the heat the perspiration streamed, but

stroke fell on stroke until the tree crashed over, grazing

a corner of the milk house and smashing the garden fence

on the east.

At the sound Elnora sprang to her feet and came running

down the garden walk.  "Mother!" she cried.  "Mother! 

What in the world are you doing?"

Mrs. Comstock wiped her ghastly face on her apron. 

"I've laid out to cut that tree for years," she said. 

"It shades the beets in the morning, and the tomatoes

in the afternoon!"

Elnora uttered one wild little cry and fled into her

mother's arms.  "Oh mother!" she sobbed.  "Will you

ever forgive me?"

Mrs. Comstock's arms swept together in a tight grip

around Elnora.

"There isn't a thing on God's footstool from a to izzard

I won't forgive you, my precious girl!" she said.  "Tell mother

what it is!"

Elnora lifted her wet face.  "He told me," she panted,

"just as soon as he decently could--that second day he

told me.  Almost all his life he's been engaged to a girl

at home.  He never cared anything about me.  He was only

interested in the moths and growing strong."

Mrs. Comstock's arms tightened.  With a shaking hand

she stroked the bright hair.

"Tell me, honey," she said.  "Is he to blame for a

single one of these tears?"

"Not one!" sobbed Elnora.  "Oh mother, I won't forgive you

if you don't believe that.  Not one!  He never said,

or looked, or did anything all the world might not

have known.  He likes me very much as a friend. 

He hated to go dreadfully!"

"Elnora!" the mother's head bent until the white hair

mingled with the brown.  "Elnora, why didn't you tell me

at first?"

Elnora caught her breath in a sharp snatch.  "I know

I should!" she sobbed.  "I will bear any punishment for

not, but I didn't feel as if I possibly could.  I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?" the shaking hand was on the hair again.

"Afraid you wouldn't let him come!" panted Elnora. 

"And oh, mother, I wanted him so!"

CHAPTER XVIII

WHEREIN MRS. COMSTOCK EXPERIMENTS WITH REJUVENATION,

AND ELNORA TEACHES NATURAL HISTORY

For the following week Mrs. Comstock and Elnora

worked so hard there was no time to talk, and they

were compelled to sleep from physical exhaustion. 

Neither of them made any pretence of eating, for they

could not swallow without an effort, so they drank milk

and worked.  Elnora kept on setting bait for Catacolae

and Sphinginae, which, unlike the big moths of June, live

several months.  She took all the dragonflies and

butterflies she could, and when she went over the list

for the man of India, she found, to her amazement,

that with Philip's help she once more had it complete

save a pair of Yellow Emperors.

This circumstance was so surprising she had a fleeting

thought of writing Philip and asking him to see if he could

not secure her a pair.  She did tell the Bird Woman, who

from every source at her command tried to complete the

series with these moths, but could not find any for sale.

"I think the mills of the Gods are grinding this grist,"

said Elnora, "and we might as well wait patiently until

they choose to send a Yellow Emperor."

Mrs. Comstock invented work.  When she had nothing more

to do, she hoed in the garden although the earth was hard

and dry and there were no plants that really needed attention. 

Then came a notification that Elnora would be compelled

to attend a week's session of the Teachers' Institute

held at the county seat twenty miles north of Onabasha

the following week.  That gave them something of which

to think and real work to do.  Elnora was requested to bring

her violin.  As she was on the programme of one of the most

important sessions for a talk on nature work in grade schools,

she was driven to prepare her speech, also to select and

practise some music.  Her mother turned her attention to clothing.

They went to Onabasha together and purchased a simple

and appropriate fall suit and hat, goods for a dainty little

coloured frock, and a dress skirt and several fancy waists. 

Margaret Sinton came down and the sewing began.  When everything

was finished and packed, Elnora kissed her mother good-bye

at the depot, and entered the train.  Mrs. Comstock went into

the waiting-room and dropped into a seat to rest.  Her heart

was so sore her whole left side felt tender.  She was half

starved for the food she had no appetite to take.  She had

worked in dogged determination until she was exhausted. 

For a time she simply sat and rested.  Then she began to think. 

She was glad Elnora had gone where she would be compelled to

fix her mind on other matters for a few days.  She remembered

the girl had said she wanted to go.

School would begin the following week.  She thought

over what Elnora would have to do to accomplish her

work successfully.  She would be compelled to arise at

six o'clock, walk three miles through varying weather, lead

the high school orchestra, and then put in the remainder of

the day travelling from building to building over the city,

teaching a specified length of time every week in each room. 

She must have her object lessons ready, and she must do a

certain amount of practising with the orchestra.  Then a

cold lunch at noon, and a three-mile walk at night.

"Humph!" said Mrs. Comstock, "to get through that

the girl would have to be made of cast-iron.  I wonder

how I can help her best?"

She thought deeply.

"The less she sees of what she's been having all summer,

the sooner she'll feel better about it," she muttered.

She arose, went to the bank and inquired for the cashier.

"I want to know just how I am fixed here," she said.

The cashier laughed.  "You haven't been in a hurry,"

he replied.  "We have been ready for you any time these

twenty years, but you didn't seem to pay much attention. 

Your account is rather flourishing.  Interest, when it gets

to compounding, is quite a money breeder.  Come back

here to a table and I will show you your balances."

Mrs. Comstock sank into a chair and waited while

the cashier read a jumble of figures to her.  It meant

that her deposits had exceeded her expenses from one

to three hundred dollars a year, according to the cattle,

sheep, hogs, poultry, butter, and eggs she had sold. 

The aggregate of these sums had been compounding interest

throughout the years.  Mrs. Comstock stared at the

total with dazed and unbelieving eyes.  Through her

sick heart rushed the realization, that if she merely had

stood before that wicket and asked one question, she

would have known that all those bitter years of skimping

for Elnora and herself had been unnecessary.  She arose

and went back to the depot.

"I want to send a message," she said.  She picked

up the pencil, and with rash extravagance, wrote, "Found

money at bank didn't know about.  If you want to go

to college, come on first train and get ready." 

She hesitated a second and then she said to herself grimly,

"Yes, I'll pay for that, too," and recklessly added, "With

love, Mother."  Then she sat waiting for the answer.  It came

in less than an hour.  "Will teach this winter.  With dearest

love, Elnora."

Mrs. Comstock held the message a long time.  When she

arose she was ravenously hungry, but the pain in her

heart was a little easier.  She went to a restaurant

and ate some food, then to a dressmaker where she ordered

four dresses: two very plain every-day ones, a serviceable

dark gray cloth suit, and a soft light gray silk with

touches of lavender and lace.  She made a heavy list

of purchases at Brownlee's, and the remainder of the day

she did business in her direct and spirited way.  At night

she was so tired she scarcely could walk home, but she

built a fire and cooked and ate a hearty meal.

Later she went out beside the west fence and gathered

an armful of tansy which she boiled to a thick green tea. 

Then she stirred in oatmeal until it was a stiff paste. 

She spread a sheet over her bed and began tearing strips

of old muslin.  She bandaged each hand and arm with the

mixture and plastered the soggy, evil-smelling stuff in a

thick poultice over her face and neck.  She was so tired

she went to sleep, and when she awoke she was half skinned. 

She bathed her face and hands, did the work and went back

to town, coming home at night to go through the same process.

By the third morning she was a raw even red, the fourth

she had faded to a brilliant pink under the soothing

influence of a cream recommended.  That day came a

letter from Elnora saying that she would remain where

she was until Saturday morning, and then come to Ellen

Brownlee's at Onabasha and stay for the Saturday's

session of teachers to arrange their year's work. 

Sunday was Ellen's last day at home, and she wanted Elnora

very much.  She had to call together the orchestra and

practise them Sunday; and could not come home until

after school Monday night.  Mrs. Comstock at once

answered the letter saying those arrangements suited her.

The following day she was a pale pink, later a delicate

porcelain white.  Then she went to a hairdresser and

had the rope of snowy hair which covered her scalp washed,

dressed, and fastened with such pins and combs as were

decided to be most becoming.  She took samples of her

dresses, went to a milliner, and bought a street hat to

match her suit, and a gray satin with lavender orchids to

wear with the silk dress.  Her last investment was a loose

coat of soft gray broadcloth with white lining, and touches

of lavender on the embroidered collar, and gray gloves to match.

Then she went home, rested and worked by turns

until Monday.  When school closed on that evening,

Elnora, so tired she almost trembled, came down the

long walk after a late session of teachers' meeting,

to be stopped by a messenger boy.

"There's a lady wants to see you most important. 

I am to take you to the place," he said.

Elnora groaned.  She could not imagine who wanted

her, but there was nothing to do but find out; tired and

anxious to see her mother as she was.

"This is the place," said the boy, and went his way whistling. 

Elnora was three blocks from the high school building on the

same street.  She was before a quaint old house, fresh with

paint and covered with vines.  There was a long wide lot,

grass-covered, closely set with trees, and a barn and chicken

park at the back that seemed to be occupied.  Elnora stepped

on the veranda which was furnished with straw rugs, bent-

hickory chairs, hanging baskets, and a table with a work-

box and magazines, and knocked at the screen door.

Inside she could see polished floors, walls freshly papered

in low-toned harmonious colours, straw rugs and madras curtains. 

It seemed to be a restful, homelike place to which she had come. 

A second later down an open stairway came a tall, dark-eyed

woman with cheeks faintly pink and a crown of fluffy snow-

white hair.  She wore a lavender gingham dress with white

collar and cuffs, and she called as she advanced:  "That screen

isn't latched!  Open it and come see your brand-new mother,

my girl."

Elnora stepped inside the door.  "Mother!" she cried. 

"You my mother!  I don't believe it!"

"Well, you better!" said Mrs. Comstock, "because

it's true!  You said you wished I were like the other

girls' mothers, and I've shot as close the mark as I could

without any practice.  I thought that walk would be

too much for you this winter, so I just rented this house

and moved in, to be near you, and help more in case I'm needed. 

I've only lived here a day, but I like it so well I've a

mortal big notion to buy the place."

"But mother!" protested Elnora, clinging to her wonderingly. 

"You are perfectly beautiful, and this house is a little

paradise, but how will we ever pay for it?  We can't afford it!"

"Humph!  Have you forgotten I telegraphed you I'd

found some money I didn't know about?  All I've done

is paid for, and plenty more to settle for all I

propose to do."

Mrs. Comstock glanced around with satisfaction.

"I may get homesick as a pup before spring," she said,

"but if I do I can go back.  If I don't, I'll sell some

timber and put a few oil wells where they don't show much. 

I can have land enough cleared for a few fields and put

a tenant on our farm, and we will buy this and settle here. 

It's for sale."

"You don't look it, but you've surely gone mad!"

"Just the reverse, my girl," said Mrs. Comstock,

"I've gone sane.  If you are going to undertake this

work, you must be convenient to it.  And your mother

should be where she can see that you are properly dressed,

fed, and cared for.  This is our--let me think--reception-room. 

How do you like it?  This door leads to your workroom and study. 

I didn't do much there because I wasn't sure of my way. 

But I knew you would want a rug, curtains, table, shelves

for books, and a case for your specimens, so I had a

carpenter shelve and enclose that end of it.  Looks pretty

neat to me.  The dining-room and kitchen are back, one

of the cows in the barn, and some chickens in the coop. 

I understand that none of the other girls' mothers milk a

cow, so a neighbour boy will tend to ours for a third of

the milk.  There are three bedrooms, and a bath upstairs. 

Go take one, put on some fresh clothes, and come to supper. 

You can find your room because your things are in it."

Elnora kissed her mother over and over, and hurried upstairs. 

She identified her room by the dressing-case.  There were

a pretty rug, and curtains, white iron bed, plain and

rocking chairs to match her case, a shirtwaist chest,

and the big closet was filled with her old clothing and

several new dresses.  She found the bathroom, bathed,

dressed in fresh linen and went down to a supper that

was an evidence of Mrs. Comstock's highest art in cooking. 

Elnora was so hungry she ate her first real meal in two weeks. 

But the bites went down slowly because she forgot about them

in watching her mother.

"How on earth did you do it?" she asked at last.  "I always

thought you were naturally brown as a nut."

"Oh, that was tan and sunburn!" explained Mrs. Comstock. 

"I always knew I was white underneath it.  I hated to

shade my face because I hadn't anything but a sunbonnet,

and I couldn't stand for it to touch my ears, so I went

bareheaded and took all the colour I accumulated. 

But when I began to think of moving you in to your work,

I saw I must put up an appearance that wouldn't disgrace

you, so I thought I'd best remove the crust.  It took

some time, and I hope I may die before I ever endure

the feel and the smell of the stuff I used again, but it

skinned me nicely.  What you now see is my own with a

little dust of rice powder, for protection.  I'm sort of

tender yet."

"And your lovely, lovely hair?" breathed Elnora.

"Hairdresser did that!" said Mrs. Comstock.  "It cost

like smoke.  But I watched her, and with a little

help from you I can wash it alone next time, though it

will be hard work.  I let her monkey with it until she

said she had found `my style.'  Then I tore it down and

had her show me how to build it up again three times. 

I thought my arms would drop.  When I paid the bill for

her work, the time I'd taken, the pins, and combs she'd

used, I nearly had heart failure, but I didn't turn a hair

before her.  I just smiled at her sweetly and said, `How

reasonable you are!' Come to think of it, she was!  She might

have charged me ten dollars for what she did quite as well

as nine seventy-five.  I couldn't have helped myself. 

I had made no bargain to begin on."

Then Elnora leaned back in her chair and shouted, in a

gust of hearty laughter, so a little of the ache ceased

in her breast.  There was no time to think, the remainder

of that evening, she was so tired she had to sleep, while

her mother did not awaken her until she barely had time

to dress, breakfast and reach school.  There was nothing

in the new life to remind her of the old.  It seemed as

if there never came a minute for retrospection, but her

mother appeared on the scene with more work, or some

entertaining thing to do.

Mrs. Comstock invited Elnora's friends to visit her,

and proved herself a bright and interesting hostess. 

She digested a subject before she spoke; and when she

advanced a view, her point was sure to be original and

tersely expressed.  Before three months people waited

to hear what she had to say.  She kept her appearance so

in mind that she made a handsome and a distinguished figure.

Elnora never mentioned Philip Ammon, neither did

Mrs. Comstock.  Early in December came a note and a

big box from him.  It contained several books on nature

subjects which would be of much help in school work,

a number of conveniences Elnora could not afford, and a

pair of glass-covered plaster casts, for each large moth

she had.  In these the upper and underwings of male and

female showed.  He explained that she would break her

specimens easily, carrying them around in boxes.  He had

seen these and thought they would be of use.  Elnora was

delighted with them, and at once began the tedious process

of softening the mounted moths and fitting them to the

casts moulded to receive them.  Her time was so taken in

school, she progressed slowly, so her mother undertook

this work.  After trying one or two very common ones she

learned to handle the most delicate with ease.  She took

keen pride in relaxing the tense moths, fitting them to the

cases, polishing the glass covers to the last degree and

sealing them.  The results were beautiful to behold.

Soon after Elnora wrote to Philip:

DEAR FRIEND:

I am writing to thank you for the books, and the box of conveniences

sent me for my work.  I can use everything with fine results. 

Hope I am giving good satisfaction in my position.  You will be

interested to learn that when the summer's work was classified and

pinned, I again had my complete collection for the man of India,

save a Yellow Emperor.  I have tried everywhere I know, so has the

Bird Woman.  We cannot find a pair for sale.  Fate is against me,

at least this season.  I shall have to wait until next year and try again.

Thank you very much for helping me with my collection and for the

books and cases.

                              Sincerely yours,

                                        ELNORA COMSTOCK.

Philip was disappointed over that note and instead of

keeping it he tore it into bits and dropped them into the

waste basket.

That was precisely what Elnora had intended he should do. 

Christmas brought beautiful cards of greeting to

Mrs. Comstock and Elnora, Easter others, and the year

ran rapidly toward spring.  Elnora's position had been

intensely absorbing, while she had worked with all her power. 

She had made a wonderful success and won new friends. 

Mrs. Comstock had helped in every way she could, so she was

very popular also.

Throughout the winter they had enjoyed the city thoroughly,

and the change of life it afforded, but signs of spring

did wonderful things to the hearts of the country-bred women. 

A restlessness began on bright February days, calmed during

March storms and attacked full force in April.  When neither

could bear it any longer they were forced to discuss the matter

and admit they were growing ill with pure homesickness. 

They decided to keep the city house during the summer,

but to return to the farm to live as soon as school closed.

So Mrs. Comstock would prepare breakfast and lunch

and then slip away to the farm to make up beds in her

ploughed garden, plant seeds, trim and tend her flowers,

and prepare the cabin for occupancy.  Then she would go

home and make the evening as cheerful as possible for

Elnora; in these days she lived only for the girl.

Both of them were glad when the last of May came and the

schools closed.  They packed the books and clothing they

wished to take into a wagon and walked across the fields

to the old cabin.  As they approached it, Mrs. Comstock

said to Elnora:  "You are sure you won't be lonely here?"

Elnora knew what she really meant.

"Quite sure," she said.  "For a time last fall I was

glad to be away, but that all wore out with the winter. 

Spring made me homesick as I could be.  I can scarcely wait

until we get back again."

So they began that summer as they had begun all others

--with work.  But both of them took a new joy in everything,

and the violin sang by the hour in the twilight.

CHAPTER XIX

WHEREIN PHILIP AMMON GIVES A BALL IN HONOUR OF EDITH CARR,

AND HART HENDERSON APPEARS ON THE SCENE

Edith Carr stood in a vine-enclosed side veranda

of the Lake Shore Club House waiting while Philip

Ammon gave some important orders.  In a few days

she would sail for Paris to select a wonderful trousseau

she had planned for her marriage in October.  To-night

Philip was giving a club dance in her honour.  He had

spent days in devising new and exquisite effects in

decorations, entertainment, and supper.  Weeks before the

favoured guests had been notified.  Days before they had

received the invitations asking them to participate in this

entertainment by Philip Ammon in honour of Miss Carr. 

They spoke of it as "Phil's dance for Edith!"

She could hear the rumble of carriages and the panting

of automobiles as in a steady stream they rolled to the

front entrance.  She could catch glimpses of floating

draperies of gauze and lace, the flash of jewels, and the

passing of exquisite colour.  Every one was newly arrayed

in her honour in the loveliest clothing, and the most

expensive jewels they could command.  As she thought of it

she lifted her head a trifle higher and her eyes flashed proudly.

She was robed in a French creation suggested and designed

by Philip.  He had said to her:  "I know a competent

judge who says the distinctive feature of June is her

exquisite big night moths.  I want you to be the very

essence of June that night, as you will be the embodiment

of love.  Be a moth.  The most beautiful of them is either

the pale-green Luna or the Yellow Imperialis.  Be my

moon lady, or my gold Empress."

He took her to the museum and showed her the moths. 

She instantly decided on the yellow.  Because she knew

the shades would make her more startlingly beautiful than

any other colour.  To him she said:  "A moon lady seems

so far away and cold.  I would be of earth and very near

on that night.  I choose the Empress."

So she matched the colours exactly, wrote out the idea

and forwarded the order to Paquin.  To-night when

Philip Ammon came for her, he stood speechless a minute

and then silently kissed her hands.

For she stood tall, lithe, of grace inborn, her dark waving

hair high piled and crossed by gold bands studded with

amethyst and at one side an enamelled lavender orchid

rimmed with diamonds, which flashed and sparkled.  The soft

yellow robe of lightest weight velvet fitted her form

perfectly, while from each shoulder fell a great velvet wing

lined with lavender, and flecked with embroidery of that

colour in imitation of the moth.  Around her throat was a

wonderful necklace and on her arms were bracelets of gold

set with amethyst and rimmed with diamonds.  Philip had said

that her gloves, fan, and slippers must be lavender, because

the feet of the moth were that colour.  These accessories

had been made to order and embroidered with gold.  It had

been arranged that her mother, Philip's, and a few best

friends should receive his guests.  She was to appear when

she led the grand march with Philip Ammon.  Miss Carr was

positive that she would be the most beautiful, and most

exquisitely gowned woman present.  In her heart she thought

of herself as "Imperialis Regalis," as the Yellow Empress. 

In a few moments she would stun her world into feeling it as

Philip Ammon had done, for she had taken pains that the

history of her costume should be whispered to a few who

would give it circulation.  She lifted her head proudly and

waited, for was not Philip planning something unusual and

unsurpassed in her honour?  Then she smiled.

But of all the fragmentary thoughts crossing her brain the

one that never came was that of Philip Ammon as the Emperor. 

Philip the king of her heart; at least her equal in all things. 

She was the Empress--yes, Philip was but a mere man, to

devise entertainments, to provide luxuries, to humour whims,

to kiss hands!

"Ah, my luck!" cried a voice behind her.

Edith Carr turned and smiled.

"I thought you were on the ocean," she said.

"I only reached the dock," replied the man, "when I had

a letter that recalled me by the first limited."

"Oh!  Important business?"

"The only business of any importance in all the world

to me.  I'm triumphant that I came.  Edith, you are the

most superb woman in every respect that I have ever seen. 

One glimpse is worth the whole journey."

"You like my dress?"  She moved toward him and turned,

lifting her arms.  "Do you know what it is intended

to represent?"

"Yes, Polly Ammon told me.  I knew when I heard

about it how you would look, so I started a sleuth hunt,

to get the first peep.  Edith, I can become intoxicated

merely with looking at you to-night."

He half-closed his eyes and smilingly stared straight at her. 

He was taller than she, a lean man, with close-cropped light

hair, steel-gray eyes, a square chin and "man of the world"

written all over him.

Edith Carr flushed.  "I thought you realized when you

went away that you were to stop that, Hart Henderson,"

she cried.

"I did, but this letter of which I tell you called me back

to start it all over again."

She came a step closer.  "Who wrote that letter, and

what did it contain concerning me?" she demanded.

"One of your most intimate chums wrote it.  It contained

the hazard that possibly I had given up too soon.  It said

that in a fit of petulance you had broken your engagement

with Ammon twice this winter, and he had come back because

he knew you did not really mean it.  I thought deeply there

on the dock when I read that, and my boat sailed without me. 

I argued that anything so weak as an engagement twice broken

and patched up again was a mighty frail affair indeed, and

likely to smash completely at any time, so I came on the run. 

I said once I would not see you marry any other man. 

Because I could not bear it, I planned to go into exile of

any sort to escape that.  I have changed my mind.  I have

come back to haunt you until the ceremony is over.  Then I go,

not before.  I was insane!"

The girl laughed merrily.  "Not half so insane as you

are now, Hart!" she cried gaily.  "You know that Philip

Ammon has been devoted to me all my life.  Now I'll tell

you something else, because this looks serious for you. 

I love him with all my heart.  Not while he lives shall he

know it, and I will laugh at him if you tell him, but the

fact remains:  I intend to marry him, but no doubt I shall

tease him constantly.  It's good for a man to be uncertain. 

If you could see Philip's face at the quarterly return of his

ring, you would understand the fun of it.  You had better

have taken your boat."

"Possibly," said Henderson calmly.  "But you are the

only woman in the world for me, and while you are free, as

I now see my light, I remain near you.  You know the old adage."

"But I'm not `free!'" cried Edith Carr.  "I'm telling

you I am not.  This night is my public acknowledgment

that Phil and I are promised, as our world has surmised

since we were children.  That promise is an actual fact,

because of what I just have told you.  My little fits of

temper don't count with Phil.  He's been reared on them. 

In fact, I often invent one in a perfect calm to see him

perform.  He is the most amusing spectacle.  But, please,

please, do understand that I love him, and always shall,

and that we shall be married."

"Just the same, I'll wait and see it an accomplished

fact," said Henderson.  "And Edith, because I love you,

with the sort of love it is worth a woman's while  to

inspire, I want your happiness before my own.  So  I

am going to say this to you, for I never dreamed you

were capable of the feeling you have displayed for Phil. 

If you do love him, and have loved him always, a

disappointment would cut you deeper than you know. 

Go careful from now on!  Don't strain that patched

engagement of yours any further.  I've known Philip all

my life.  I've known him through boyhood, in college,

and since.  All men respect him.  Where the rest of us

confess our sins, he stands clean.  You can go to his arms

with nothing to forgive.  Mark this thing!  I have heard

him say, `Edith is my slogan,' and I have seen him march

home strong in the strength of his love for you, in the face

of temptations before which every other man of us fell. 

Before the gods! that ought to be worth something to a

girl, if she really is the delicate, sensitive, refined

thing she would have man believe.  It would take a woman

with the organism of an ostrich to endure some of the

men here to-night, if she knew them as I do; but Phil

is sound to the core.  So this is what I would say

to you: first, your instincts are right in loving him,

why not let him feel it in the ways a woman knows? 

Second, don't break your engagement again.  As men

know the man, any of us would be afraid to the soul. 

He loves you, yes!  He is long-suffering for you, yes! 

But men know he has a limit.  When the limit is

reached, he will stand fast, and all the powers can't

move him.  You don't seem to think it, but you can go

too far!"

"Is that all?" laughed Edith Carr sarcastically.

"No, there is one thing more," said Henderson.  "Here or

here-after, now and so long as I breathe, I am your slave. 

You can do anything you choose and know that I will

kneel before you again.  So carry this in the depths of

your heart; now or at any time, in any place or condition,

merely lift your hand, and I will come.  Anything you

want of me, that thing will I do.  I am going to wait; if

you need me, it is not necessary to speak; only give me

the faintest sign.  All your life I will be somewhere near

you waiting for it."

"Idjit!  You rave!" laughed Edith Carr.  "How you

would frighten me!  What a bugbear you would raise! 

Be sensible and go find what keeps Phil.  I was waiting

patiently, but my patience is going.  I won't look nearly

so well as I do now when it is gone."

At that instant Philip Ammon entered.  He was in

full evening dress and exceptionally handsome. 

"Everything is ready," he said; "they are waiting for

us to lead the march.  It is formed."

Edith Carr smiled entrancingly.  "Do you think I am ready?"

Philip looked what he thought, and offered his arm. 

Edith Carr nodded carelessly to Hart Henderson, and

moved away.  Attendants parted the curtains and the

Yellow Empress bowing right and left, swept the length

of the ballroom and took her place at the head of the

formed procession.  The large open dancing pavilion was

draped with yellow silk caught up with lilac flowers. 

Every corner was filled with bloom of those colours. 

The music was played by harpers dressed in yellow and

violet, so the ball opened.

The midnight supper was served with the same colours

and the last half of the programme was being danced. 

Never had girl been more complimented and petted in

the same length of time than Edith Carr.  Every minute

she seemed to grow more worthy of praise.  A partners'

dance was called and the floor was filled with couples

waiting for the music.  Philip stood whispering delightful

things to Edith facing him.  From out of the night,

in at the wide front entrance to the pavilion, there

swept in slow wavering flight a large yellow moth and

fluttered toward the centre cluster of glaring electric lights. 

Philip Ammon and Edith Carr saw it at the same instant.

"Why, isn't that----?" she began excitedly.

"It's a Yellow Emperor!  This is fate!" cried Philip. 

"The last one Elnora needs for her collection.  I must

have it!  Excuse me!"

He ran toward the light.  "Hats!  Handkerchiefs!  Fans! 

Anything!" he panted.  "Every one hold up something and

stop that!  It's a moth; I've got to catch it!"

"It's yellow!  He wants it for Edith!" ran in a murmur

around the hall.  The girl's face flushed, while she bit her

lips in vexation.

Instantly every one began holding up something to

keep the moth from flying back into the night.  One fan

held straight before it served, and the moth gently settled

on it.

"Hold steady!" cried Philip.  "Don't move for your life!" 

He rushed toward the moth, made a quick sweep and held it

up between his fingers.  "All right!" he called.  "Thanks,

every one!  Excuse me a minute."

He ran to the office.

"An ounce of gasolene, quick!" he ordered.  "A cigar

box, a cork, and the glue bottle."

He poured some glue into the bottom of the box, set the

cork in it firmly, dashed the gasolene over the moth

repeatedly, pinned it to the cork, poured the remainder

of the liquid over it, closed the box, and fastened it. 

Then he laid a bill on the counter.

"Pack that box with cork around it, in one twice its

size, tie securely and express to this address at once."

He scribbled on a sheet of paper and shoved it over.

"On your honour, will you do that faithfully as I say?"

he asked the clerk.

"Certainly," was the reply.

"Then keep the change," called Philip as he ran back

to the pavilion.

Edith Carr stood where he left her, thinking rapidly. 

She heard the murmur that arose when Philip started

to capture the exquisite golden creature she

was impersonating.  She saw the flash of surprise that

went over unrestrained faces when he ran from the room,

without even showing it to her.  "The last one Elnora

needs," rang in her ears.  He had told her that he

helped collect moths the previous summer, but she had

understood that the Bird Woman, with whose work Miss

Carr was familiar, wanted them to put in a book.

He had spoken of a country girl he had met who played

the violin wonderfully, and at times, he had shown a

disposition to exalt her as a standard of womanhood. 

Miss Carr had ignored what he said, and talked of

something else.  But that girl's name had been Elnora. 

It was she who was collecting moths!  No doubt she was

the competent judge who was responsible for the yellow

costume Philip had devised.  Had Edith Carr been in

her room, she would have torn off the dress at the thought.

Being in a circle of her best friends, which to her meant

her keenest rivals and harshest critics, she grew rigid

with anger.  Her breath hurt her paining chest.  No one

thought to speak to the musicians, and seeing the floor

filled, they began the waltz.  Only part of the guests

could see what had happened, and at once the others

formed and commenced to dance.  Gay couples came

whirling past her.

Edith Carr grew very white as she stood alone.  Her lips

turned pale, while her dark eyes flamed with anger. 

She stood perfectly still where Philip had left her, and

the approaching men guided their partners around her,

while the girls, looking back, could be seen making

exclamations of surprise.

The idolized only daughter of the Carr family hoped that

she would drop dead from mortification, but nothing happened. 

She was too perverse to step aside and say that she was

waiting for Philip.  Then came Tom Levering dancing with

Polly Ammon.  Being in the scales with the Ammon family,

Tom scented trouble from afar, so he whispered to Polly: 

"Edith is standing in the middle of the floor, and she's

awful mad about something."

"That won't hurt her," laughed Polly.  "It's an old

pose of hers.  She knows she looks superb when she is

angry, so she keeps herself furious half the time on purpose."

"She looks like the mischief!" answered Tom.  "Hadn't we

better steer over and wait with her?  She's the ugliest

sight I ever saw!"

"Why, Tom!" cried Polly.  "Stop, quickly!"

They hurried to Edith.

"Come dear," said Polly.  "We are going to wait

with you until Phil returns.  Let's go after a drink. 

I am so thirsty!"

"Yes, do!" begged Tom, offering his arm.  "Let's get

out of here until Phil comes."

There was the opportunity to laugh and walk away, but

Edith Carr would not accept it.

"My betrothed left me here," she said.  "Here I shall

remain until he returns for me, and then--he will be my

betrothed no longer!"

Polly grasped Edith's arm.

"Oh, Edith!" she implored.  "Don't make a scene here,

and to-night.  Edith, this has been the loveliest

dance ever given at the club house.  Every one is saying so. 

Edith!  Darling, do come!  Phil will be back in a second. 

He can explain!  It's only a breath since I saw him go out. 

I thought he had returned."

As Polly panted these disjointed ejaculations, Tom

Levering began to grow angry on her account.

"He has been gone just long enough to show every

one of his guests that he will leave me standing alone,

like a neglected fool, for any passing whim of his. 

Explain!  His explanation would sound well!  Do you know

for whom he caught that moth?  It is being sent to a girl

he flirted with all last summer.  It has just occurred to me

that the dress I am wearing is her suggestion.  Let him

try to explain!"

Speech unloosed the fountain.  She stripped off her

gloves to free her hands.  At that instant the dancers

parted to admit Philip.  Instinctively they stopped as

they approached and with wondering faces walled in

Edith and Philip, Polly and Tom.

"Mighty good of you to wait!" cried Philip, his face

showing his delight over his success in capturing the

Yellow Emperor.  "I thought when I heard the music

you were going on."

"How did you think I was going on?" demanded Edith

Carr in frigid tones.

"I thought you would step aside and wait a few seconds

for me, or dance with Henderson.  It was most important

to have that moth.  It completes a valuable collection for

a person who needs the money.  Come!"

He held out his arms.

"I `step aside' for no one!" stormed Edith Carr. 

"I await no other girl's pleasure!  You may `complete

the collection' with that!"

She drew her engagement ring from her finger and

reached to place it on one of Philip's outstretched hands. 

He saw and drew back.  Instantly Edith dropped the ring. 

As it fell, almost instinctively Philip caught it in air. 

With amazed face he looked closely at Edith Carr. 

Her distorted features were scarcely recognizable. 

He held the ring toward her.

"Edith, for the love of mercy, wait until I can explain,"

he begged.  "Put on your ring and let me tell you how it is."

"I know perfectly `how it is,'" she answered.  "I never

shall wear that ring again."

"You won't even hear what I have to say?  You won't

take back your ring?" he cried.

"Never!  Your conduct is infamous!"

"Come to think of it," said Philip deliberately, "it is

`infamous' to cut a girl, who has danced all her life, out of

a few measures of a waltz.  As for asking forgiveness for so

black a sin as picking up a moth, and starting it to a friend

who lives by collecting them, I don't see how I could! 

I have not been gone three minutes by the clock, Edith. 

Put on your ring and finish the dance like a dear girl."

He thrust the glittering ruby into her fingers and again

held out his arms.  She dropped the ring, and it rolled some

distance from them.  Hart Henderson followed its shining

course, and caught it before it was lost.

"You really mean it?" demanded Philip in a voice as

cold as hers ever had been.

"You know I mean it!" cried Edith Carr.

"I accept your decision in the presence of these

witnesses," said Philip Ammon.  "Where is my father?" 

The elder Ammon with a distressed face hurried to him. 

"Father, take my place," said Philip.  "Excuse me to

my guests.  Ask all my friends to forgive me.  I am

going away for awhile."

He turned and walked from the pavilion.  As he went

Hart Henderson rushed to Edith Carr and forced the ring

into her fingers.  "Edith, quick.  Come, quick!" he implored. 

"There's just time to catch him.  If you let him go that way,

he never will return in this world.  Remember what I told you."

"Great prophet! aren't you, Hart?" she sneered. 

"Who wants him to return?  If that ring is thrust upon

me again I shall fling it into the lake.  Signal the

musicians to begin, and dance with me."

Henderson put the ring into his pocket, and began the dance. 

He could feel the muscular spasms of the girl in his arms,

her face was cold and hard, but her breath burned with

the scorch of fever.  She finished the dance and all

others, taking Phil's numbers with Henderson, who had

arrived too late to arrange a programme.  She left with

the others, merely inclining her head as she passed

Ammon's father taking his place, and entered the big touring

car for which Henderson had telephoned.  She sank limply

into a seat and moaned softly.

"Shall I drive awhile in the night air?" asked Henderson.

She nodded.  He instructed the chauffeur.

She raised her head in a few seconds.  "Hart, I'm going

to pieces," she said.  "Won't you put your arm around me

a little while?"

Henderson gathered her into his arms and her head fell

on his shoulder.  "Closer!" she cried.

Henderson held her until his arms were numb, but he

did not know it.  The tricks of fate are cruel enough, but

there scarcely could have been a worse one than that: 

To care for a woman as he loved Edith Carr and have her

given into his arms because she was so numb with misery

over her trouble with another man that she did not know or

care what she did.  Dawn was streaking the east when he

spoke to her.

"Edith, it is growing light."

"Take me home," she said.

Henderson helped her up the steps and rang the bell.

"Miss Carr is ill," he said to the footman.  "Arouse her

maid instantly, and have her prepare something hot as

quickly as possible."

"Edith," he cried, "just a word.  I have been thinking. 

It isn't too late yet.  Take your ring and put it on.

I will go find Phil at once and tell him you have, that

you are expecting him, and he will come."

"Think what he said!" she cried.  "He accepted my decision

as final, `in the presence of witnesses,' as if it were court.  

He can return it to me, if I ever wear it again."

"You think that now, but in a few days you will find

that you feel very differently.  Living a life of heartache

is no joke, and no job for a woman.  Put on your ring and

send me to tell him to come."

"No."

"Edith, there was not a soul who saw that, but sympathized

with Phil.  It was ridiculous for you to get so angry over

a thing which was never intended for the slightest offence,

and by no logical reasoning could have been so considered."

"Do you think that?" she demanded.

"I do!" said Henderson.  "If you had laughed and stepped

aside an instant, or laughed and stayed where you were,

Phil would have been back; or, if he needed punishment

in your eyes, to have found me having one of his dances

would have been enough.  I was waiting.  You could have

called me with one look.  But to publicly do and say

what you did, my lady--I know Phil, and I know you

went too far.  Put on that ring, and send him word

you are sorry, before it is too late."

"I will not!  He shall come to me."

"Then God help you!" said Henderson, "for you are

plunging into misery whose depth you do not dream. 

Edith, I beg of you----"

She swayed where she stood.  Her maid opened the door

and caught her.  Henderson went down the hall and out

to his car.

CHAPTER XX

WHEREIN THE ELDER AMMON OFFERS ADVICE,

AND EDITH CARR EXPERIENCES REGRETS

Philip Ammon walked from among his friends a

humiliated and a wounded man.  Never before had

Edith Carr appeared quite so beautiful.  All evening

she had treated him with unusual consideration. 

Never had he loved her so deeply.  Then in a few seconds

everything was different.  Seeing the change in her face,

and hearing her meaningless accusations, killed something

in his heart.  Warmth went out and a cold weight took

its place.  But even after that, he had offered the ring

to her again, and asked her before others to reconsider. 

The answer had been further insult.

He walked, paying no heed to where he went.  He had

traversed many miles when he became aware that his feet

had chosen familiar streets.  He was passing his home. 

Dawn was near, but the first floor was lighted. 

He staggered up the steps and was instantly admitted. 

The library door stood open, while his father sat with

a book pretending to read.  At Philip's entrance the

father scarcely glanced up.

"Come on!" he called.  "I have just told Banks to bring

me a cup of coffee before I turn in.  Have one with me!"

Philip sat beside the table and leaned his head on his

hands, but he drank a cup of steaming coffee and felt better.

"Father," he said, "father, may I talk with you a little while?"

"Of course," answered Mr. Ammon.  "I am not at

all tired.  I think I must have been waiting in the

hope that you would come.  I want no one's version

of this but yours.  Tell me the straight of the

thing, Phil."

Philip told all he knew, while his father sat in deep thought.

"On my life I can't see any occasion for such a display of

temper, Phil.  It passed all bounds of reason and breeding. 

Can't you think of anything more?"

"I cannot!"

"Polly says every one expected you to carry the moth

you caught to Edith.  Why didn't you?"

"She screams if a thing of that kind comes near her. 

She never has taken the slightest interest in them.  I was

in a big hurry.  I didn't want to miss one minute of my

dance with her.  The moth was not so uncommon, but by

a combination of bad luck it had become the rarest in

America for a friend of mine, who is making a collection to

pay college expenses.  For an instant last June the series

was completed; when a woman's uncontrolled temper ruined

this specimen and the search for it began over.  A few

days later a pair was secured, and again the money was

in sight for several hours.  Then an accident wrecked

one-fourth of the collection.  I helped replace those

last June, all but this Yellow Emperor which we could

not secure, and we haven't been able to find, buy or

trade for one since.  So my friend was compelled to teach

this past winter instead of going to college.  When that

moth came flying in there to-night, it seemed to me like fate. 

All I thought of was, that to secure it would complete the

collection and secure the money.  So I caught the Emperor and

started it to Elnora.  I declare to you that I was not out of

the pavilion over three minutes at a liberal estimate.  If I

only had thought to speak to the orchestra!  I was sure I

would be back before enough couples gathered and formed

for the dance."

The eyes of the father were very bright.

"The friend for whom you wanted the moth is a girl?"

he asked indifferently, as he ran the book leaves through

his fingers.

"The girl of whom I wrote you last summer, and told

you about in the fall.  I helped her all the time I was away."

"Did Edith know of her?"

"I tried many times to tell her, to interest her, but she

was so indifferent that it was insulting.  She would not

hear me."

"We are neither one in any condition to sleep.  Why don't

you begin at the first and tell me about this girl? 

To think of other matters for a time may clear our vision

for a sane solution of this.  Who is she, just what is she

doing, and what is she like?  You know I was reared among

those Limberlost people, I can understand readily. 

What is her name and where does she live?"

Philip gave a man's version of the previous summer,

while his father played with the book industriously.

"You are very sure as to her refinement and education?"

"In almost two months' daily association, could a man

be mistaken?  She can far and away surpass Polly, Edith,

or any girl of our set on any common, high school, or

supplementary branch, and you know high schools have

French, German, and physics now.  Besides, she is a

graduate of two other institutions.  All her life she has

been in the school of Hard Knocks.  She has the biggest,

tenderest, most human heart I ever knew in a girl.  She has

known life in its most cruel phases, and instead of

hardening her, it has set her trying to save other

people suffering.  Then this nature position of which

I told you; she graduated in the School of the Woods,

before she secured that.  The Bird Woman, whose work you

know, helped her there.  Elnora knows more interesting

things in a minute than any other girl I ever met knew in

an hour, provided you are a person who cares to understand

plant and animal life."

The book leaves slid rapidly through his fingers as

the father drawled:  "What sort of looking girl is she?"

"Tall as Edith, a little heavier, pink, even complexion,

wide open blue-gray eyes with heavy black brows, and

lashes so long they touch her cheeks.  She has a rope

of waving, shining hair that makes a real crown on her

head, and it appears almost red in the light.  She is as

handsome as any fair woman I ever saw, but she doesn't

know it.  Every time any one pays her a compliment,

her mother, who is a caution, discovers that, for some

reason, the girl is a fright, so she has no appreciation of

her looks."

"And you were in daily association two months with

a girl like that!  How about it, Phil?"

"If you mean, did I trifle with her, no!" cried Philip hotly. 

"I told her the second time I met her all about Edith. 

Almost every day I wrote to Edith in her presence. 

Elnora gathered violets and made a fancy basket to put

them in for Edith's birthday.  I started to err in

too open admiration for Elnora, but her mother brought

me up with a whirl I never forgot.  Fifty times a day

in the swamps and forests Elnora made a perfect picture,

but I neither looked nor said anything.  I never met

any girl so downright noble in bearing and actions. 

I never hated anything as I hated leaving her, for we were

dear friends, like two wholly congenial men.  Her mother

was almost always with us.  She knew how much I admired

Elnora, but so long as I concealed it from the girl,

the mother did not care."

"Yet you left such a girl and came back whole-hearted

to Edith Carr!"

"Surely!  You know how it has been with me about

Edith all my life."

"Yet the girl you picture is far her superior to an

unprejudiced person, when thinking what a man would

require in a wife to be happy."

"I never have thought what I would `require' to be happy! 

I only thought whether I could make Edith happy.  I have

been an idiot!  What I've borne you'll never know! 

To-night is only one of many outbursts like that,

in varying and lesser degrees."

"Phil, I love you, when you say you have thought

only of Edith!  I happen to know that it is true. 

You are my only son, and I have had a right to watch

you closely.  I believe you utterly.  Any one who cares

for you as I do, and has had my years of experience in

this world over yours, knows that in some ways, to-night

would be a blessed release, if you could take it; but

you cannot!  Go to bed now, and rest.  To-morrow, go back

to her and fix it up."

"You heard what I said when I left her!  I said it because

something in my heart died a minute before that, and

I realized that it was my love for Edith Carr.  Never again

will I voluntarily face such a scene.  If she can act

like that at a ball, before hundreds, over a thing of which

I thought nothing at all, she would go into actual physical

fits and spasms, over some of the household crises I've

seen the mater meet with a smile.  Sir, it is truth that

I have thought only of her up to the present.  Now, I

will admit I am thinking about myself.  Father, did you

see her?  Life is too short, and it can be too sweet, to

throw it away in a battle with an unrestrained woman. 

I am no fighter--where a girl is concerned, anyway. 

I respect and love her or I do nothing.  Never again is

either respect or love possible between me and Edith Carr. 

Whenever I think of her in the future, I will see her as

she was to-night.  But I can't face the crowd just yet. 

Could you spare me a few days?"

"It is only ten days until you were to go north for the

summer, go now."

"I don't want to go north.  I don't want to meet people

I know.  There, the story would precede me.  I do not

need pitying glances or rough condolences.  I wonder if

I could not hide at Uncle Ed's in Wisconsin for awhile?"

The book closed suddenly.  The father leaned across

the table and looked into the son's eyes.

"Phil, are you sure of what you just have said?"

"Perfectly sure!"

"Do you think you are in any condition to decide to-night?"

"Death cannot return to life, father.  My love for

Edith Carr is dead.  I hope never to see her again."

"If I thought you could be certain so soon!  But, come

to think of it, you are very like me in many ways.  I am

with you in this.  Public scenes and disgraces I would

not endure.  It would be over with me, were I in your

position, that I know."

"It is done for all time," said Philip Ammon.  "Let us

not speak of it further."

"Then, Phil," the father leaned closer and looked at the

son tenderly, "Phil, why don't you go to the Limberlost?"

"Father!"

"Why not?  No one can comfort a hurt heart like a

tender woman; and, Phil, have you ever stopped to think

that you may have a duty in the Limberlost, if you

are free?  I don't know!  I only suggest it.  But, for a

country schoolgirl, unaccustomed to men, two months

with a man like you might well awaken feelings of which

you do not think.  Because you were safe-guarded is no

sign the girl was.  She might care to see you.  You can

soon tell.  With you, she comes next to Edith, and you

have made it clear to me that you appreciate her in many

ways above.  So I repeat it, why not go to the Limberlost?"

A long time Philip Ammon sat in deep thought.  At last

he raised his head.

"Well, why not!" he said.  "Years could make me

no surer than I am now, and life is short.  Please ask

Banks to get me some coffee and toast, and I will bathe

and dress so I can take the early train."

"Go to your bath.  I will attend to your packing

and everything.  And Phil, if I were you, I would

leave no addresses."

"Not an address!" said Philip.  "Not even Polly."

When the train pulled out, the elder Ammon went home

to find Hart Henderson waiting.

"Where is Phil?" he demanded.

"He did not feel like facing his friends at present, and

I am just back from driving him to the station.  He said

he might go to Siam, or Patagonia.  He would leave no address."

Henderson almost staggered.  "He's not gone?  And left

no address?  You don't mean it!  He'll never forgive her!"

"Never is a long time, Hart," said Mr. Ammon.  "And it

seems even longer to those of us who are well acquainted

with Phil.  Last night was not the last straw.  It was

the whole straw-stack.  It crushed Phil so far as she

is concerned.  He will not see her again voluntarily, and

he will not forget if he does.  You can take it from him,

and from me, we have accepted the lady's decision.  Will you

have a cup of coffee?"

Twice Henderson opened his lips to speak of Edith

Carr's despair.  Twice he looked into the stern, inflexible

face of Mr. Ammon and could not betray her.  He held

out the ring.

"I have no instructions as to that," said the elder

Ammon, drawing back.  "Possibly Miss Carr would have

it as a keepsake."

"I am sure not," said Henderson curtly.

"Then suppose you return it to Peacock.  I will phone him. 

He will give you the price of it, and you might add

it to the children's Fresh Air Fund.  We would be obliged

if you would do that.  No one here cares to handle the object."

"As you choose," said Henderson.  "Good morning!"

Then he went to his home, but he could not think of sleep. 

He ordered breakfast, but he could not eat.  He paced the

library for a time, but it was too small.  Going on the

streets he walked until exhausted, then he called

a hansom and was driven to his club.  He had thought

himself familiar with every depth of suffering; that night

had taught him that what he felt for himself was not to be

compared with the anguish which wrung his heart over

the agony of Edith Carr.  He tried to blame Philip Ammon,

but being an honest man, Henderson knew that was unjust. 

The fault lay wholly with her, but that only made it

harder for him, as he realized it would in time for her.

As he sauntered into the room an attendant hurried to him.

"You are wanted most urgently at the 'phone, Mr.

Henderson," he said.  "You have had three calls from

Main 5770."

Henderson shivered as he picked down the receiver and

gave the call.

"Is that you, Hart?" came Edith's voice.

"Yes."

"Did you find Phil?"

"No."

"Did you try?"

"Yes.  As soon as I left you I went straight there."

"Wasn't he home yet?"

"He has been home and gone again."

"Gone!"

The cry tore Henderson's heart.

"Shall I come and tell you, Edith?"

"No! Tell me now."

"When I reached the house Banks said Mr. Ammon

and Phil were out in the motor, so I waited.  Mr. Ammon

came back soon.  Edith, are you alone?"

"Yes.  Go on!"

"Call your maid.  I can't tell you until some one is

with you."

"Tell me instantly!"

"Edith, he said he had been to the station.  He said

Phil had started to Siam or Patagonia, he didn't know

which, and left no address.  He said----"

Distinctly Henderson heard her fall.  He set the buzzer

ringing, and in a few seconds heard voices, so he knew she

had been found.  Then he crept into a private den and

shook with a hard, nervous chill.

The next day Edith Carr started on her trip to Europe. 

Henderson felt certain she hoped to meet Philip there. 

He was sure she would be disappointed, though he had no

idea where Ammon could have gone.  But after much

thought he decided he would see Edith soonest by

remaining at home, so he spent the summer in Chicago.

CHAPTER  XXI

WHEREIN PHILIP AMMON RETURNS TO THE LIMBERLOST,

AND ELNORA STUDIES THE SITUATION

We must be thinking about supper, mother," said Elnora,

while she set the wings of a Cecropia with much care. 

"It seems as if I can't get enough to eat, or enough

of being at home.  I enjoyed that city house.  I don't

believe I could have done my work if I had been

compelled to walk back and forth.  I thought at first

I never wanted to come here again.  Now, I feel as if

I could not live anywhere else."

"Elnora," said Mrs. Comstock, "there's some one

coming down the road."

"Coming here, do you think?"

"Yes, coming here, I suspect."

Elnora glanced quickly at her mother and then turned

to the road as Philip Ammon reached the gate.

"Careful, mother!" the girl instantly warned.  "If you

change your treatment of him a hair's breadth, he

will suspect.  Come with me to meet him."

She dropped her work and sprang up.

"Well, of all the delightful surprises!" she cried.

She was a trifle thinner than during the previous summer. 

On her face there was a more mature, patient look, but

the sun struck her bare head with the same ray of red gold. 

She wore one of the old blue gingham dresses, open

at the throat and rolled to the elbows.  Mrs. Comstock

did not appear at all the same woman, but Philip saw only

Elnora; heard only her greeting.  He caught both hands

where she offered but one.

"Elnora," he cried, "if you were engaged to me, and we

were at a ball, among hundreds, where I offended you very

much, and didn't even know I had done anything, and if I

asked you before all of them to allow me to explain,

to forgive me, to wait, would your face grow distorted

and unfamiliar with anger?  Would you drop my ring on the

floor and insult me repeatedly?  Oh Elnora, would you?"

Elnora's big eyes seemed to leap, while her face grew

very white.  She drew away her hands.

"Hush, Phil!  Hush!" she protested.  "That fever has

you again!  You are dreadfully ill.  You don't know

what you are saying."

"I am sleepless and exhausted; I'm heartsick; but I am

well as I ever was.  Answer me, Elnora, would you?"

"Answer nothing!" cried Mrs. Comstock.  "Answer nothing! 

Hang your coat there on your nail, Phil, and come split

some kindling.  Elnora, clean away that stuff, and set

the table.  Can't you see the boy is starved and tired? 

He's come home to rest and eat a decent meal.  Come on, Phil!"

Mrs. Comstock marched away, and Philip hung his coat

in its old place and followed.  Out of sight and hearing

she turned on him.

"Do you call yourself a man or a hound?" she flared. 

"I beg your pardon----" stammered Philip Ammon.

"I should think you would!" she ejaculated.  "I'll admit

you did the square thing and was a man last summer,

though I'd liked it better if you'd faced up and told

me you were promised; but to come back here babying,

and take hold of Elnora like that, and talk that way

because you have had a fuss with your girl, I don't tolerate. 

Split that kindling and I'll get your supper, and then you

better go.  I won't have you working on Elnora's big

heart, because you have quarrelled with some one else. 

You'll have it patched up in a week and be gone again, so

you can go right away."

"Mrs. Comstock, I came to ask Elnora to marry me."

"The more fool you, then!" cried Mrs. Comstock. 

"This time yesterday you were engaged to another woman,

no doubt.  Now, for some little flare-up you come racing

here to use Elnora as a tool to spite the other girl. 

A week of sane living, and you will be sorry and ready to

go back to Chicago, or, if you really are man enough to be

sure of yourself, she will come to claim you.  She has

her rights.  An engagement of years is a serious matter, and

not broken for a whim.  If you don't go, she'll come. 

Then, when you patch up your affairs and go sailing away

together, where does my girl come in?"

"I am a lawyer, Mrs. Comstock," said Philip.  "It appeals

to me as beneath your ordinary sense of justice to decide

a case without hearing the evidence.  It is due me that

you hear me first."

"Hear your side!" flashed Mrs. Comstock.  "I'd a

heap sight rather hear the girl!"

"I wish to my soul that you had heard and seen her last

night, Mrs. Comstock," said Ammon.  "Then, my way

would be clear.  I never even thought of coming

here to-day.  I'll admit I would have come in time,

but not for many months.  My father sent me."

"Your father sent you!  Why?"

"Father, mother, and Polly were present last night. 

They, and all my friends, saw me insulted and disgraced

in the worst exhibition of uncontrolled temper any of us

ever witnessed.  All of them knew it was the end. 

Father liked what I had told him of Elnora, and he

advised me to come here, so I came.  If she does not

want me, I can leave instantly, but, oh I hoped she

would understand!"

"You people are not splitting wood," called Elnora.

"Oh yes we are!" answered Mrs. Comstock.  "You set

out the things for biscuit, and lay the table."  She turned

again to Philip.  "I know considerable about your father,"

she said.  "I have met your Uncle's family frequently

this winter.  I've heard your Aunt Anna say that she

didn't at all like Miss Carr, and that she and all your

family secretly hoped that something would happen to

prevent your marrying her.  That chimes right in with

your saying that your father sent you here.  I guess you

better speak your piece."

Philip gave his version of the previous night.

"Do you believe me?" he finished.

"Yes," said Mrs. Comstock.

"May I stay?"

"Oh, it looks all right for you, but what about her?"

"Nothing, so far as I am concerned.  Her plans were all

made to start to Europe to-day.  I suspect she is on the

way by this time.  Elnora is very sensible, Mrs. Comstock. 

Hadn't you better let her decide this?"

"The final decision rests with her, of course," admitted

Mrs. Comstock.  "But look you one thing!  She's all I have. 

As Solomon says, `she is the one child, the only child

of her mother.'  I've suffered enough in this world

that I fight against any suffering which threatens her. 

So far as I know you've always been a man, and you

may stay.  But if you bring tears and heartache to her,

don't have the assurance to think I'll bear it tamely. 

I'll get right up and fight like a catamount, if things

go wrong for Elnora!"

"I have no doubt but you will," replied Philip, "and I

don't blame you in the least if you do.  I have the utmost

devotion to offer Elnora, a good home, fair social position,

and my family will love her dearly.  Think it over.  I know

it is sudden, but my father advised it."

"Yes, I reckon he did!" said Mrs. Comstock dryly.  "I guess

instead of me being the catamount, you had the genuine

article up in Chicago, masquerading in peacock feathers,

and posing as a fine lady, until her time came to scratch. 

Human nature seems to be the same the world over.  But I'd

give a pretty to know that secret thing you say you don't,

that set her raving over your just catching a moth for Elnora. 

You might get that crock of strawberries in the spring house."

They prepared and ate supper.  Afterward they sat in

the arbour and talked, or Elnora played until time for

Philip to go.

"Will you walk to the gate with me?" he asked Elnora

as he arose.

"Not to-night," she answered lightly.  "Come early in

the morning if you like, and we will go over to Sleepy

Snake Creek and hunt moths and gather dandelions for dinner."

Philip leaned toward her.  "May I tell you to-morrow

why I came?" he asked.

"I think not," replied Elnora.  "The fact is, I don't

care why you came.  It is enough for me that we are your

very good friends, and that in trouble, you have found us

a refuge.  I fancy we had better live a week or two before

you say anything.  There is a possibility that what you

have to say may change in that length of time.

"It will not change one iota!" cried Philip.

"Then it will have the grace of that much age to give it

some small touch of flavour," said the girl.  "Come early

in the morning."

She lifted the violin and began to play.

"Well bless my soul!" ejaculated the astounded Mrs. Comstock. 

"To think I was worrying for fear you couldn't take care

of yourself!"

Elnora laughed while she played.

"Shall I tell you what he said?"

"Nope!  I don't want to hear it!" said Elnora.  "He is

only six hours from Chicago.  I'll give her a week to

find him and fix it up, if he stays that long.  If she doesn't

put in an appearance then, he can tell me what he wants

to say, and I'll take my time to think it over.  Time in

plenty, too!  There are three of us in this, and one must

be left with a sore heart for life.  If the decision rests

with me I propose to be very sure that it is the one who

deserves such hard luck."

The next morning Philip came early, dressed in the outing

clothing he had worn the previous summer, and aside

from a slight paleness seemed very much the same as when

he left.  Elnora met him on the old footing, and for a

week life went on exactly as it had the previous summer. 

Mrs. Comstock made mental notes and watched in silence. 

She could see that Elnora was on a strain, though she

hoped Philip would not.  The girl grew restless as the

week drew to a close.  Once when the gate clicked she

suddenly lost colour and moved nervously.  Billy came down

the walk.

Philip leaned toward Mrs. Comstock and said:  "I am

expressly forbidden to speak to Elnora as I would like. 

Would you mind telling her for me that I had a letter from

my father this morning saying that Miss Carr is on her way

to Europe for the summer?"

"Elnora," said Mrs. Comstock promptly, "I have just

heard that Carr woman is on her way to Europe, and I

wish to my gracious stars she'd stay there!"

Philip Ammon shouted, but Elnora arose hastily and

went to meet Billy.  They came into the arbour together

and after speaking to Mrs. Comstock and Philip, Billy

said:  "Uncle Wesley and I found something funny, and

we thought you'd like to see."

"I don't know what I should do without you and Uncle

Wesley to help me," said Elnora.  "What have you found now?"

"Something I couldn't bring.  You have to come to it. 

I tried to get one and I killed it.  They are a kind of

insecty things, and they got a long tail that is three

fine hairs.  They stick those hairs right into the hard

bark of trees, and if you pull, the hairs stay fast and

it kills the bug."

"We will come at once," laughed Elnora.  "I know

what they are, and I can use some in my work."

"Billy, have you been crying?" inquired Mrs. Comstock.

Billy lifted a chastened face.  "Yes, ma'am," he replied. 

"This has been the worst day."

"What's the matter with the day?"

"The day is all right," admitted Billy.  "I mean every

single thing has gone wrong with me."

"Now that is too bad!" sympathized Mrs. Comstock.

"Began early this morning," said Billy.  "All Snap's

fault, too."

"What has poor Snap been doing?" demanded Mrs.

Comstock, her eyes beginning to twinkle.

"Digging for woodchucks, like he always does.  He gets

up at two o'clock to dig for them.  He was coming

in from the woods all tired and covered thick with dirt. 

I was going to the barn with the pail of water for Uncle

Wesley to use in milking.  I had to set down the pail to

shut the gate so the chickens wouldn't get into the flower

beds, and old Snap stuck his dirty nose into the water

and began to lap it down.  I knew Uncle Wesley wouldn't

use that, so I had to go 'way back to the cistern for more,

and it pumps awful hard.  Made me mad, so I threw the

water on Snap."

"Well, what of it?"

"Nothing, if he'd stood still.  But it scared him awful,

and when he's afraid he goes a-humping for Aunt Margaret. 

When he got right up against her he stiffened

out and gave a big shake.  You oughter seen the nice

blue dress she had put on to go to Onabasha!"

Mrs. Comstock and Philip laughed, but Elnora put

her arms around the boy.  "Oh Billy!" she cried. 

"That was too bad!"

"She got up early and ironed that dress to wear because

it was cool.  Then, when it was all dirty, she

wouldn't go, and she wanted to real bad." Billy wiped

his eyes.  "That ain't all, either," he added.

"We'd like to know about it, Billy," suggested Mrs.

Comstock, struggling with her face.

"Cos she couldn't go to the city, she's most worked

herself to death.  She's done all the dirty, hard jobs she

could find.  She's fixing her grape juice now."

"Sure!" cried Mrs. Comstock.  "When a woman is

disappointed she always works like a dog to gain sympathy!"

"Well, Uncle Wesley and I are sympathizing all we

know how, without her working so.  I've squeezed until

I almost busted to get the juice out from the seeds

and skins.  That's the hard part.  Now, she has to strain

it through white flannel and seal it in bottles, and it's

good for sick folks.  Most wish I'd get sick myself, so

I could have a glass.  It's so good!"

Elnora glanced swiftly at her mother. 

"I worked so hard," continued Billy, "that she said if

I would throw the leavings in the woods, then I could come

after you to see about the bugs.  Do you want to go?"

"We will all go," said Mrs. Comstock.  "I am mightily

interested in those bugs myself."

From afar commotion could be seen at the Sinton home.

Wesley and Margaret were running around wildly and

peculiar sounds filled the air.

"What's the trouble?" asked Philip, hurrying to Wesley.

"Cholera!" groaned Sinton.  "My hogs are dying like flies."

Margaret was softly crying.  "Wesley, can't I fix

something hot?  Can't we do anything?  It means several

hundred dollars and our winter meat."

"I never saw stock taken so suddenly and so hard,"

said Wesley.  "I have 'phoned for the veterinary to come

as soon as he can get here."

All of them hurried to the feeding pen into which the

pigs seemed to be gathering from the woods.  Among the

common stock were big white beasts of pedigree which

were Wesley's pride at county fairs.  Several of these

rolled on their backs, pawing the air feebly and emitting

little squeaks.  A huge Berkshire sat on his haunches,

slowly shaking his head, the water dropping from his

eyes, until he, too, rolled over with faint grunts.  A pair

crossing the yard on wavering legs collided, and attacked

each other in anger, only to fall, so weak they scarcely

could squeal.  A fine snowy Plymouth Rock rooster, after

several attempts, flew to the fence, balanced with great

effort, wildly flapped his wings and started a guttural crow,

but fell sprawling among the pigs, too helpless to stand.

"Did you ever see such a dreadful sight?" sobbed Margaret.

Billy climbed on the fence, took one long look and

turned an astounded face to Wesley.

"Why them pigs is drunk!" he cried.  "They act just

like my pa!"

Wesley turned to Margaret.

"Where did you put the leavings from that grape juice?"

he demanded.

"I sent Billy to throw it in the woods."

"Billy----" began Wesley.

"Threw it just where she told me to," cried Billy. 

But some of the pigs came by there coming into the

pen, and some were close in the fence corners."

"Did they eat it?" demanded Wesley.

"They just chanked into it," replied Billy graphically. 

"They pushed, and squealed, and fought over it. 

You couldn't blame 'em!  It was the best stuff I ever tasted!"

"Margaret," said Wesley, "run 'phone that doctor he

won't be needed.  Billy, take Elnora and Mr. Ammon to

see the bugs.  Katharine, suppose you help me a minute."

Wesley took the clothes basket from the back porch and

started in the direction of the cellar.  Margaret returned

from the telephone.

"I just caught him," she said.  "There's that much saved. 

Why Wesley, what are you going to do?"

"You go sit on the front porch a little while," said Wesley. 

"You will feel better if you don't see this."

"Wesley," cried Margaret aghast.  "Some of that wine

is ten years old.  There are days and days of hard work

in it, and I couldn't say how much sugar.  Dr. Ammon

keeps people alive with it when nothing else will stay on

their stomachs."

"Let 'em die, then!" said Wesley.  "You heard the boy,

didn't you?"

"It's a cold process.  There's not a particle of fermentation

about it."

"Not a particle of fermentation!  Great day, Margaret!  Look at

those pigs!"

Margaret took a long look.  "Leave me a few bottles

for mince-meat," she wavered.

"Not a smell for any use on this earth!  You heard

the boy!  He shan't say, when he grows to manhood, that

he learned to like it here!"

Wesley threw away the wine, Mrs. Comstock cheerfully assisting. 

Then they walked to the woods to see and learn about the

wonderful insects.  The day ended with a big supper at

Sintons', and then they went to the Comstock cabin for

a concert.  Elnora played beautifully that night.  When the

Sintons left she kissed Billy with particular tenderness. 

She was so moved that she was kinder to Philip than she had

intended to be, and Elnora as an antidote to a disappointed

lover was a decided success in any mood.

However strong the attractions of Edith Carr had

been, once the bond was finally broken, Philip Ammon

could not help realizing that Elnora was the superior

woman, and that he was fortunate to have escaped, when

he regarded his ties strongest.  Every day, while working

with Elnora, he saw more to admire.  He grew very

thankful that he was free to try to win her, and impatient

to justify himself to her.

Elnora did not evince the slightest haste to hear what

he had to say, but waited the week she had set, in spite

of Philip's hourly manifest impatience.  When she did

consent to listen, Philip felt before he had talked five

minutes, that she was putting herself in Edith Carr's

place, and judging him from what the other girl's

standpoint would be.  That was so disconcerting, he did

not plead his cause nearly so well as he had hoped, for

when he ceased Elnora sat in silence.

"You are my judge," he said at last.  "What is your verdict?"

"If I could hear her speak from her heart as I just have

heard you, then I could decide," answered Elnora.

"She is on the ocean," said Philip.  "She went because

she knew she was wholly in the wrong.  She had nothing

to say, or she would have remained."

"That sounds plausible," reasoned Elnora, "but it is

pretty difficult to find a woman in an affair that involves

her heart with nothing at all to say.  I fancy if I could

meet her, she would say several things.  I should love to

hear them.  If I could talk with her three minutes, I

could tell what answer to make you."

"Don't you believe me, Elnora?"

"Unquestioningly," answered Elnora.  "But I would

believe her also.  If only I could meet her I soon

would know."

"I don't see how that is to be accomplished," said

Philip, "but I am perfectly willing.  There is no reason

why you should not meet her, except that she probably

would lose her temper and insult you."

"Not to any extent," said Elnora calmly.  "I have

a tongue of my own, while I am not without some small

sense of personal values."

Philip glanced at her and began to laugh.  Very different

of facial formation and colouring, Elnora at times closely

resembled her mother.  She joined in his laugh ruefully.

"The point is this," she said.  "Some one is going to

be hurt, most dreadfully.  If the decision as to whom it

shall be rests with me, I must know it is the right one. 

Of course, no one ever hinted it to you, but you are a

very attractive man, Philip.  You are mighty good to

look at, and you have a trained, refined mind, that makes

you most interesting.  For years Edith Carr has felt that

you were hers.  Now, how is she going to change?  I have

been thinking--thinking deep and long, Phil.  If I were

in her place, I simply could not give you up, unless

you had made yourself unworthy of love.  Undoubtedly, you

never seemed so desirable to her as just now, when she is

told she can't have you.  What I think is that she will

come to claim you yet."

"You overlook the fact that it is not in a woman's power

to throw away a man and pick him up at pleasure," said

Philip with some warmth.  "She publicly and repeatedly

cast me off.  I accepted her decision as publicly as

it was made.  You have done all your thinking from

a wrong viewpoint.  You seem to have an idea that it

lies with you to decide what I shall do, that if you say the

word, I shall return to Edith.  Put that thought out of

your head!  Now, and for all time to come, she is a matter

of indifference to me.  She killed all feeling in my heart

for her so completely that I do not even dread meeting her.

"If I hated her, or was angry with her, I could not be

sure the feeling would not die.  As it is, she has deadened

me into a creature of indifference.  So you just revise

your viewpoint a little, Elnora.  Cease thinking it is for

you to decide what I shall do, and that I will obey you. 

I make my own decisions in reference to any woman, save you. 

The question you are to decide is whether I may remain here,

associating with you as I did last summer; but with the

difference that it is understood that I am free; that it

is my intention to care for you all I please, to make you

return my feeling for you if I can.  There is just one

question for you to decide, and it is not triangular. 

It is between us.  May I remain?  May I love you? 

Will you give me the chance to prove what I think of you?"

"You speak very plainly," said Elnora.

"This is the time to speak plainly," said Philip Ammon. 

"There is no use in allowing you to go on threshing out

a problem which does not exist.  If you do not want

me here, say so and I will go.  Of course, I warn you

before I start, that I will come back.  I won't yield

without the stiffest fight it is in me to make.  But drop

thinking it lies in your power to send me back to Edith Carr. 

If she were the last woman in the world, and I the last man,

I'd jump off the planet before I would give her further

opportunity to exercise her temper on me.  Narrow this to

us, Elnora.  Will you take the place she vacated? 

Will you take the heart she threw away?  I'd give my

right hand and not flinch, if I could offer you my

life, free from any contact with hers, but that is

not possible.  I can't undo things which are done. 

I can only profit by experience and build better in

the future."

"I don't see how you can be sure of yourself," said Elnora. 

"I don't see how I could be sure of you.  You loved her first,

you never can care for me anything like that.  Always I'd

have to be afraid you were thinking of her and regretting."

"Folly!" cried Philip.  "Regretting what?  That I

was not married to a woman who was liable to rave at

me any time or place, without my being conscious of

having given offence?  A man does relish that!  I am

likely to pine for more!"

"You'd be thinking she'd learned a lesson.  You would

think it wouldn't happen again."

"No, I wouldn't be `thinking,'" said, Philip.  "I'd be

everlastingly sure!  I wouldn't risk what I went

through that night again, not to save my life!  Just you

and me, Elnora.  Decide for us."

"I can't!" cried Elnora.  "I am afraid!"

"Very well," said Philip.  "We will wait until you feel

that you can.  Wait until fear vanishes.  Just decide

now whether you would rather have me go for a few

months, or remain with you.  Which shall it be, Elnora?"

"You can never love me as you did her," wailed Elnora.

"I am happy to say I cannot," replied he.  "I've cut

my matrimonial teeth.  I'm cured of wanting to swell

in society.  I'm over being proud of a woman for her

looks alone.  I have no further use for lavishing myself on

a beautiful, elegantly dressed creature, who thinks only

of self.  I have learned that I am a common man.  I admire

beauty and beautiful clothing quite as much as I ever

did; but, first, I want an understanding, deep as the lowest

recess of my soul, with the woman I marry.  I want to work

for you, to plan for you, to build you a home with every

comfort, to give you all good things I can, to shield

you from every evil.  I want to interpose my body between

yours and fire, flood, or famine.  I want to give

you everything; but I hate the idea of getting nothing at

all on which I can depend in return.  Edith Carr had

only good looks to offer, and when anger overtook her,

beauty went out like a snuffed candle.

"I want you to love me.  I want some consideration.

I even crave respect.  I've kept myself clean.  So far

as I know how to be, I am honest and scrupulous. 

It wouldn't hurt me to feel that you took some interest

in these things.  Rather fierce temptations strike a man,

every few days, in this world.  I can keep decent, for a

woman who cares for decency, but when I do, I'd like

to have the fact recognized, by just enough of a show of

appreciation that I could see it.  I am tired of this one-

sided business.  After this, I want to get a little in return

for what I give.  Elnora, you have love, tenderness,

and honest appreciation of the finest in life.  Take what

I offer, and give what I ask."

"You do not ask much," said Elnora.

"As for not loving you as I did Edith," continued

Philip, "as I said before, I hope not!  I have a newer

and a better idea of loving.  The feeling I offer you was

inspired by you.  It is a Limberlost product.  It is as

much bigger, cleaner, and more wholesome than any feeling

I ever had for Edith Carr, as you are bigger than she,

when you stand before your classes and in calm dignity

explain the marvels of the Almighty, while she stands

on a ballroom floor, and gives way to uncontrolled temper. 

Ye gods, Elnora, if you could look into my soul, you

would see it leap and rejoice over my escape!  Perhaps it

isn't decent, but it's human; and I'm only a common

human being.  I'm the gladdest man alive that I'm free! 

I would turn somersaults and yell if I dared.  What an escape! 

Stop straining after Edith Carr's viewpoint and take a look

from mine.  Put yourself in my place and try to study out

how I feel.

"I am so happy I grow religious over it.  Fifty times

a day I catch myself whispering, `My soul is escaped!' 

As for you, take all the time you want.  If you prefer to

be alone, I'll take the next train and stay away as long as

I can bear it, but I'll come back.  You can be most sure

of that.  Straight as your pigeons to their loft, I'll come

back to you, Elnora.  Shall I go?"

"Oh, what's the use to be extravagant?" murmured Elnora.

CHAPTER XXII

WHEREIN PHILIP AMMON KNEELS TO ELNORA,

AND STRANGERS COME TO THE LIMBERLOST

The month which followed was a reproduction of

the previous June.  There were long moth hunts,

days of specimen gathering, wonderful hours with

great books, big dinners all of them helped to prepare,

and perfect nights filled with music.  Everything was as

it had been, with the difference that Philip was now an

avowed suitor.  He missed no opportunity to advance

himself in Elnora's graces.  At the end of the month

he was no nearer any sort of understanding with her

than he had been at the beginning.  He revelled in the

privilege of loving her, but he got no response. 

Elnora believed in his love, yet she hesitated to

accept him, because she could not forget Edith Carr.

One afternoon early in July, Philip came across the

fields, through the Comstock woods, and entered the garden. 

He inquired for Elnora at the back door and was told that

she was reading under the willow.  He went around the

west end of the cabin to her.  She sat on a rustic

bench they had made and placed beneath a drooping branch. 

He had not seen her before in the dress she was wearing. 

It was clinging mull of pale green, trimmed with narrow

ruffles and touched with knots of black velvet; a simple

dress, but vastly becoming.  Every tint of her bright hair,

her luminous eyes, her red lips, and her rose-flushed

face, neck, and arms grew a little more vivid with the

delicate green setting.

He stopped short.  She was so near, so temptingly

sweet, he lost control.  He went to her with a half-

smothered cry after that first long look, dropped on one

knee beside her and reached an arm behind her to the bench

back, so that he was very near.  He caught her hands.

"Elnora!" he cried tensely, "end it now!  Say this

strain is over.  I pledge you that you will be happy. 

You don't know!  If you only would say the word, you

would awake to new life and great joy!  Won't you promise

me now, Elnora?"

The girl sat staring into the west woods, while strong

in her eyes was her father's look of seeing something

invisible to others.  Philip's arm slipped from the bench

around her.  His fingers closed firmly over hers. 

Elnora," he pleaded, "you know me well enough. 

You have had time in plenty.  End it now.  Say you will

be mine!"  He gathered her closer, pressing his face against

hers, his breath on her cheek.  "Can't you quite promise

yet, my girl of the Limberlost?"

Elnora shook her head.  Instantly he released her.

"Forgive me," he begged.  "I had no intention of thrusting

myself upon you, but, Elnora, you are the veriest Queen

of Love this afternoon.  From the tips of your toes to

your shining crown, I worship you.  I want no woman save you. 

You are so wonderful this afternoon, I couldn't help urging. 

Forgive me.  Perhaps it was something that came this

morning for you.  I wrote Polly to send it.  May we try

if it fits?  Will you tell me if you like it?"

He drew a little white velvet box from his pocket and

showed her a splendid emerald ring.

"It may not be right," he said.  "The inside of a glove

finger is not very accurate for a measure, but it was the

best I could do.  I wrote Polly to get it, because she and

mother are home from the East this week, but next they

will go on to our cottage in the north, and no one knows

what is right quite so well as Polly."  He laid the ring

in Elnora's hand.  "Dearest," he said, "don't slip that

on your finger; put your arms around my neck and promise me,

all at once and abruptly, or I'll keel over and die of sheer joy."

Elnora smiled.

"I won't!  Not all those venturesome things at once;

but, Phil, I'm ashamed to confess that ring simply

fascinates me.  It is the most beautiful one I ever saw,

and do you know that I never owned a ring of any kind

in my life?  Would you think me unwomanly if I slip

it on for a second, before I can say for sure?  Phil, you

know I care!  I care very much!  You know I will tell

you the instant I feel right about it."

"Certainly you will," agreed Philip promptly.  "It is

your right to take all the time you choose.  I can't

put that ring on you until it means a bond between us. 

I'll shut my eyes and you try it on, so we can see if

it fits." Philip turned his face toward the west woods

and tightly closed his eyes.  It was a boyish thing to do,

and it caught the hesitating girl in the depths of her

heart as the boy element in a man ever appeals to a

motherly woman.  Before she quite realized what she

was doing, the ring slid on her finger.  With both arms

she caught Philip and drew him to her breast, holding

him closely.  Her head drooped over his, her lips were

on his hair.  So an instant, then her arms dropped. 

He lifted a convulsed, white face.

"Dear Lord!" he whispered.  "You--you didn't mean that,

Elnora!  You----  What made you do it?"

"You--you looked so boyish!" panted Elnora.  "I didn't

mean it!  I--I forgot that you were older than Billy. 

Look--look at the ring!"

"`The Queen can do no wrong,'" quoted Philip between his

set teeth.  "But don't you do that again, Elnora, unless

you do mean it.  Kings are not so good as queens, and

there is a limit with all men.  As you say, we will

look at your ring.  It seems very lovely to me.  Suppose you

leave it on until time for me to go.  Please do!  I have

heard of mute appeals; perhaps it will plead for me. 

I am wild for your lips this afternoon.  I am going to

take your hands."

He caught both of them and covered them with kisses.

"Elnora," he said, "Will you be my wife?"

"I must have a little more time," she whispered.  "I must

be absolutely certain, for when I say yes, and give

myself to you, only death shall part us.  I would not

give you up.  So I want a little more time--but, I think

I will."

"Thank you," said Philip.  "If at any time you feel that

you have reached a decision, will you tell me?  Will you

promise me to tell me instantly, or shall I keep asking

you until the time comes?"

"You make it difficult," said Elnora.  "But I will

promise you that.  Whenever the last doubt vanishes, I

will let you know instantly--if I can."

"Would it be difficult for you?" whispered Ammon.

"I--I don't know," faltered Elnora.

"It seems as if I can't be man enough to put this

thought aside and give up this afternoon," said Philip. 

"I am ashamed of myself, but I can't help it.  I am going

to ask God to make that last doubt vanish before I go

this night.  I am going to believe that ring will plead

for me.  I am going to hope that doubt will disappear suddenly. 

I will be watching.  Every second I will be watching. 

If it happens and you can't speak, give me your hand. 

Just the least movement toward me, I will understand. 

Would it help you to talk this over with your mother? 

Shall I call her?  Shall I----?"

Honk!  Honk!  Honk!  Hart Henderson set the horn

of the big automobile going as it shot from behind the

trees lining the Brushwood road.  The picture of a vine-

covered cabin, a large drooping tree, a green-clad girl

and a man bending over her very closely flashed into view. 

Edith Carr caught her breath with a snap.  Polly Ammon

gave Tom Levering a quick touch and wickedly winked

at him.

Several days before, Edith had returned from Europe suddenly. 

She and Henderson had called at the Ammon residence saying

that they were going to motor down to the Limberlost to see

Philip a few hours, and urged that Polly and Tom accompany them. 

Mrs. Ammon knew that her husband would disapprove of the trip,

but it was easy to see that Edith Carr had determined on going. 

So the mother thought it better to have Polly along to support

Philip than to allow him to confront Edith unexpectedly and alone. 

Polly was full of spirit.  She did not relish the thought of

Edith as a sister.  Always they had been in the same set,

always Edith, because of greater beauty and wealth,

had patronized Polly.  Although it had rankled, she had borne

it sweetly.  But two days before, her father had extracted

a promise of secrecy, given her Philip's address and told her

to send him the finest emerald ring she could select. 

Polly knew how that ring would be used.  What she did not know

was that the girl who accompanied her went back to the store

afterward, made an excuse to the clerk that she had been sent

to be absolutely sure that the address was right, and so secured

it for Edith Carr.

Two days later Edith had induced Hart Henderson to take

her to Onabasha.  By the aid of maps they located the

Comstock land and passed it, merely to see the place. 

Henderson hated that trip, and implored Edith not to take

it, but she made no effort to conceal from him what she

suffered, and it was more than he could endure.  He pointed

out that Philip had gone away without leaving an address,

because he did not wish to see her, or any of them. 

But Edith was so sure of her power, she felt certain Philip

needed only to see her to succumb to her beauty as he always

had done, while now she was ready to plead for forgiveness. 

So they came down the Brushwood road, and Henderson had just

said to Edith beside him:  "This should be the Comstock land

on our left."

A minute later the wood ended, while the sunlight,

as always pitiless, etched with distinctness the scene at

the west end of the cabin.  Instinctively, to save Edith,

Henderson set the horn blowing.  He had thought to drive to

the city, but Polly Ammon arose crying:  "Phil!  Phil!"

Tom Levering was on his feet shouting and waving, while

Edith in her most imperial manner ordered him to turn

into the lane leading through the woods beside the cabin.

"Find some way for me to have a minute alone with her,"

she commanded as he stopped the car.

"That is my sister Polly, her fiance Tom Levering, a

friend of mine named Henderson, and----" began Philip,

"--and Edith Carr," volunteered Elnora.

"And Edith Carr," repeated Philip Ammon.  "Elnora, be

brave, for my sake.  Their coming can make no difference

in any way.  I won't let them stay but a few minutes. 

Come with me!"

"Do I seem scared?" inquired Elnora serenely.  "This is

why you haven't had your answer.  I have been waiting

just six weeks for that motor.  You may bring them to me

at the arbour."

Philip glanced at her and broke into a laugh.  She had

not lost colour.  Her self-possession was perfect. 

She deliberately turned and walked toward the grape arbour,

while he sprang over the west fence and ran to the car.

Elnora standing in the arbour entrance made a perfect

picture, framed in green leaves and tendrils.  No matter

how her heart ached, it was good to her, for it pumped

steadily, and kept her cheeks and lips suffused with colour. 

She saw Philip reach the car and gather his sister into

his arms.  Past her he reached a hand to Levering,

then to Edith Carr and Henderson.  He lifted his sister

to the ground, and assisted Edith to alight.  Instantly, she

stepped beside him, and Elnora's heart played its first trick.

She could see that Miss Carr was splendidly beautiful,

while she moved with the hauteur and grace supposed to

be the prerogatives of royalty.  And she had instantly

taken possession of Philip.  But he also had a brain which

was working with rapidity.  He knew Elnora was watching,

so he turned to the others.

"Give her up, Tom!" he cried.  "I didn't know I wanted

to see the little nuisance so badly, but I do.  How are

father and mother?  Polly, didn't the mater send me something?"

"She did!" said Polly Ammon, stopping on the path and

lifting her chin as a little child, while she drew away

her veil.

Philip caught her in his arms and stooped for his

mother's kiss.

"Be good to Elnora!" he whispered.

"Umhu!" assented Polly.  And aloud--"Look at that ripping

green and gold symphony!  I never saw such a beauty! 

Thomas Asquith Levering, you come straight here and take

my hand!"

Edith's move to compel Philip to approach Elnora beside her

had been easy to see; also its failure.  Henderson stepped

into Philip's place as he turned to his sister.  Instead of

taking Polly's hand Levering ran to open the gate. 

Edith passed through first, but Polly darted in front

of her on the run, with Phil holding her arm, and swept up

to Elnora.  Polly looked for the ring and saw it.  That settled

matters with her.

"You lovely, lovely, darling girl!" she cried, throwing

her arms around Elnora and kissing her.  With her lips close

Elnora's ear, Polly whispered, "Sister!  Dear, dear sister!"

Elnora drew back, staring at Polly in confused amazement. 

She was a beautiful girl, her eyes were sparkling and

dancing, and as she turned to make way for the others,

she kept one of Elnora's hands in hers.  Polly would have

dropped dead in that instant if Edith Carr could have

killed with a look, for not until then did she realize that

Polly would even many a slight, and that it had been a

great mistake to bring her.

Edith bowed low, muttered something and touched

Elnora's fingers.  Tom took his cue from Polly.

"I always follow a good example," he said, and before

any one could divine his intention he kissed Elnora as he

gripped her hand and cried:  "Mighty glad to meet you! 

Like to meet you a dozen times a day, you know!"

Elnora laughed and her heart pumped smoothly.  They had

accomplished their purpose.  They had let her know they

were there through compulsion, but on her side.  In that

instant only pity was in Elnora's breast for the flashing

dark beauty, standing with smiling face while her heart

must have been filled with exceeding bitterness. 

Elnora stepped back from the entrance.

"Come into the shade," she urged.  "You must have

found it warm on these country roads.  Won't you lay

aside your dust-coats and have a cool drink?  Philip, would

you ask mother to come, and bring that pitcher from the

spring house?"

They entered the arbour exclaiming at the dim, green coolness. 

There was plenty of room and wide seats around the sides,

a table in the centre, on which lay a piece of embroidery,

magazines, books, the moth apparatus, and the cyanide jar

containing several specimens.  Polly rejoiced in the

cooling shade, slipped off her duster, removed her hat,

rumpled her pretty hair and seated herself to indulge in

the delightful occupation of paying off old scores. 

Tom Levering followed her example.  Edith took a seat

but refused to remove her hat and coat, while Henderson

stood in the entrance.

"There goes something with wings!  Should you have

that?" cried Levering.

He seized a net from the table and raced across the garden

after a butterfly.  He caught it and came back mightily

pleased with himself.  As the creature struggled in the net,

Elnora noted a repulsed look on Edith Carr's face. 

Levering helped the situation beautifully.

"Now what have I got?" he demanded.  "Is it just a

common one that every one knows and you don't keep, or

is it the rarest bird off the perch?"

"You must have had practice, you took that so perfectly,"

said Elnora.  "I am sorry, but it is quite common and not

of a kind I keep.  Suppose all of you see how beautiful

it is and then it may go nectar hunting again."

She held the butterfly where all of them could see,

showed its upper and under wing colours, answered Polly's

questions as to what it ate, how long it lived, and how

it died.  Then she put it into Polly's hand saying:  "Stand

there in the light and loosen your hold slowly and easily."

Elnora caught a brush from the table and began softly

stroking the creature's sides and wings.  Delighted with

the sensation the butterfly opened and closed its wings,

clinging to Polly's soft little fingers, while every one cried

out in surprise.  Elnora laid aside the brush, and the

butterfly sailed away.

"Why, you are a wizard!  You charm them!" marvelled Levering.

"I learned that from the Bird Woman," said Elnora. 

"She takes soft brushes and coaxes butterflies and moths

into the positions she wants for the illustrations of a book

she is writing.  I have helped her often.  Most of the rare

ones I find go to her."

"Then you don't keep all you take?" questioned Levering.

"Oh, dear, no!" cried Elnora.  "Not a tenth!  For myself,

a pair of each kind to use in illustrating the lectures I

give in the city schools in the winter, and one pair for each

collection I make.  One might as well keep the big night

moths of June, for they only live four or five days anyway. 

For the Bird Woman, I only save rare ones she has not yet secured. 

Sometimes I think it is cruel to take such creatures from

freedom, even for an hour, but it is the only way to teach

the masses of people how to distinguish the pests they

should destroy, from the harmless ones of great beauty. 

Here comes mother with something cool to drink."

Mrs. Comstock came deliberately, talking to Philip as

she approached.  Elnora gave her one searching look, but

could discover only an extreme brightness of eye to denote

any unusual feeling.  She wore one of her lavender dresses,

while her snowy hair was high piled.  She had taken care

of her complexion, and her face had grown fuller during

the winter.  She might have been any one's mother with

pride, and she was perfectly at ease.

Polly instantly went to her and held up her face to be kissed. 

Mrs. Comstock's eyes twinkled and she made the greeting hearty.

The drink was compounded of the juices of oranges and

berries from the garden.  It was cool enough to frost

glasses and pitcher and delicious to dusty tired travellers. 

Soon the pitcher was empty, and Elnora picked it up and

went to refill it.  While she was gone Henderson asked

Philip about some trouble he was having with his car. 

They went to the woods and began a minute examination

to find a defect which did not exist.  Polly and Levering

were having an animated conversation with Mrs. Comstock. 

Henderson saw Edith arise, follow the garden path

next the woods and stand waiting under the willow which

Elnora would pass on her return.  It was for that meeting

he had made the trip.  He got down on the ground, tore

up the car, worked, asked for help, and kept Philip busy

screwing bolts and applying the oil can.  All the time

Henderson kept an eye on Edith and Elnora under the willow. 

But he took pains to lay the work he asked Philip to do

where that scene would be out of his sight.  When Elnora

came around the corner with the pitcher, she found herself

facing Edith Carr.

"I want a minute with you," said Miss Carr.

"Very well," replied Elnora, walking on.

"Set the pitcher on the bench there," commanded Edith

Carr, as if speaking to a servant.

"I prefer not to offer my visitors a warm drink," said Elnora. 

"I'll come back if you really wish to speak with me."

"I came solely for that," said Edith Carr.

"It would be a pity to travel so far in this dust and heat

for nothing.  I'll only be gone a second."

Elnora placed the pitcher before her mother.  "Please serve

this," she said.  "Miss Carr wishes to speak with me."

"Don't you pay the least attention to anything she

says," cried Polly.  "Tom and I didn't come here because

we wanted to.  We only came to checkmate her.  I hoped

I'd get the opportunity to say a word to you, and now she

has given it to me.  I just want to tell you that she threw

Phil over in perfectly horrid way.  She hasn't any right

to lay the ghost of a claim to him, has she, Tom?"

"Nary a claim," said Tom Levering earnestly.  "Why, even

you, Polly, couldn't serve me as she did Phil, and

ever get me back again.  If I were you, Miss Comstock,

I'd send my mother to talk with her and I'd stay here."

Tom had gauged Mrs. Comstock rightly.  Polly put her

arms around Elnora.  "Let me go with you, dear," she begged.

"I promised I would speak with her alone," said Elnora,

"and she must be considered.  But thank you, very much."

"How I shall love you!" exulted Polly, giving Elnora

a parting hug.

The girl slowly and gravely walked back to the willow. 

She could not imagine what was coming, but she was promising

herself that she would be very patient and control her temper.

"Will you be seated?" she asked politely.

Edith Carr glanced at the bench, while a shudder shook her.

"No.  I prefer to stand," she said.  "Did Mr. Ammon

give you the ring you are wearing, and do you consider

yourself engaged to him?"

"By what right do you ask such personal questions as

those?" inquired Elnora.

"By the right of a betrothed wife.  I have been promised

to Philip Ammon ever since I wore short skirts.  All our

lives we have expected to marry.  An agreement of years

cannot be broken in one insane moment.  Always he has

loved me devotedly.  Give me ten minutes with him and he

will be mine for all time."

"I seriously doubt that," said Elnora.  "But I am

willing that you should make the test.  I will call him."

"Stop!" commanded Edith Carr.  "I told you that it was

you I came to see."

"I remember," said Elnora.

"Mr. Ammon is my betrothed," continued Edith Carr. 

"I expect to take him back to Chicago with me."

"You expect considerable," murmured Elnora.  "I will

raise no objection to your taking him, if you can--but, I

tell you frankly, I don't think it possible."

"You are so sure of yourself as that," scoffed Edith Carr. 

"One hour in my presence will bring back the old spell,

full force.  We belong to each other.  I will not give him up."

"Then it is untrue that you twice rejected his ring,

repeatedly insulted him, and publicly renounced him?"

"That was through you!" cried Edith Carr.  "Phil and

I never had been so near and so happy as we were on

that night.  It was your clinging to him for things that

caused him to desert me among his guests, while he tried

to make me await your pleasure.  I realize the spell of

this place, for a summer season.  I understand what you

and your mother have done to inveigle him.  I know that

your hold on him is quite real.  I can see just how you

have worked to ensnare him!"

"Men would call that lying," said Elnora calmly. 

"The second time I met Philip Ammon he told me of

his engagement to you, and I respected it.  I did by you

as I would want you to do by me.  He was here parts

of each day, almost daily last summer.  The Almighty

is my witness that never once, by word or look, did I ever

make the slightest attempt to interest him in my person

or personality.  He wrote you frequently in my presence. 

He forgot the violets for which he asked to send you. 

I gathered them and carried them to him.  I sent him back

to you in unswerving devotion, and the Almighty is also

my witness that I could have changed his heart last summer,

if I had tried.  I wisely left that work for you.  All my

life I shall be glad that I lived and worked on the square. 

That he ever would come back to me free, by your act,

I never dreamed.  When he left me I did not hope or expect

to see him again," Elnora's voice fell soft and low,"

and, behold!  You sent him--and free!"

"You exult in that!" cried Edith Carr.  "Let me tell

you he is not free!  We have belonged for years. 

We always shall.  If you cling to him, and hold him to rash

things he has said and done, because he thought me still

angry and unforgiving with him, you will ruin all our lives. 

If he married you, before a month you would read heart-hunger

for me in his eyes.  He could not love me as he has done,

and give me up for a little scene like that!"

"There is a great poem," said Elnora, "one line of which

reads, `For each man kills the thing he loves.'  Let me

tell you that a woman can do that also.  He did love you

--that I concede.  But you killed his love everlastingly,

when you disgraced him in public.  Killed it so completely

he does not even feel resentment toward you.  To-day,

he would do you a favour, if he could; but love you, no! 

That is over!"

Edith Carr stood truly regal and filled with scorn. 

"You are mistaken!  Nothing on earth could kill that!"

she cried, and Elnora saw that the girl really believed

what she said.

"You are very sure of yourself!" said Elnora.

"I have reason to be sure," answered Edith Carr.

"We have lived and loved too long.  I have had years

with him to match against your days.  He is mine! 

His work, his ambitions, his friends, his place in

society are with me.  You may have a summer charm for a

sick man in the country; if he tried placing you in

society, he soon would see you as others will.  It takes

birth to position, schooling, and endless practice to meet

social demands gracefully.  You would put him to shame in

a week."

"I scarcely think I should follow your example so far,"

said Elnora dryly.  "I have a feeling for Philip that

would prevent my hurting him purposely, either in public

or private.  As for managing a social career for him he

never mentioned that he desired such a thing.  What he

asked of me was that I should be his wife.  I understood

that to mean that he desired me to keep him a clean house,

serve him digestible food, mother his children, and give

him loving sympathy and tenderness."

"Shameless!" cried Edith Carr.

"To which of us do you intend that adjective to apply?"

inquired Elnora.  "I never was less ashamed in all my life. 

Please remember I am in my own home, and your presence here

is not on my invitation."

Miss Carr lifted her head and struggled with her veil. 

She was very pale and trembling violently, while Elnora

stood serene, a faint smile on her lips.

"Such vulgarity!" panted Edith Carr.  "How can a

man like Philip endure it?"

"Why don't you ask him?" inquired Elnora.  "I can

call him with one breath; but, if he judged us as we stand,

I should not be the one to tremble at his decision. 

Miss Carr, you have been quite plain.  You have told me

in carefully selected words what you think of me. 

You insult my birth, education, appearance, and home. 

I assure you I am legitimate.  I will pass a test examination

with you on any high school or supplementary branch,

or French or German.  I will take a physical examination

beside you.  I will face any social emergency you can

mention with you.  I am acquainted with a whole world

in which Philip Ammon is keenly interested, that you

scarcely know exists.  I am not afraid to face any

audience you can get together anywhere with my violin. 

I am not repulsive to look at, and I have a wholesome regard

for the proprieties and civilities of life.  Philip Ammon

never asked anything more of me, why should you?"

"It is plain to see," cried Edith Carr, "that you took

him when he was hurt and angry and kept his wound wide open. 

Oh, what have you not done against me?"

"I did not promise to marry him when an hour ago he

asked me, and offered me this ring, because there was so

much feeling in my heart for you, that I knew I never

could be happy, if I felt that in any way I had failed in

doing justice to your interests.  I did slip on this ring,

which he had just brought, because I never owned one,

and it is very beautiful, but I made him no promise, nor

shall I make any, until I am quite, quite sure, that you

fully realize he never would marry you if I sent him away

this hour."

"You know perfectly that if your puny hold on him

were broken, if he were back in his home, among his

friends, and where he was meeting me, in one short week

he would be mine again, as he always has been.  In your

heart you don't believe what you say.  You don't dare

trust him in my presence.  You are afraid to allow him

out of your sight, because you know what the results

would be.  Right or wrong, you have made up your mind

to ruin him and me, and you are going to be selfish enough

to do it.  But----"

"That will do!" said Elnora.  "Spare me the enumeration

of how I will regret it.  I shall regret nothing. 

I shall not act until I know there will be nothing to regret. 

I have decided on my course.  You may return to your friends."

"What do you mean?" demanded Edith Carr.

"That is my affair," replied Elnora.  "Only this! 

When your opportunity comes, seize it!  Any time you

are in Philip Ammon's presence, exert the charms of which

you boast, and take him.  I grant you are justified in

doing it if you can.  I want nothing more than I want to

see you marry Philip if he wants you.  He is just across

the fence under that automobile.  Go spread your meshes

and exert your wiles.  I won't stir to stop you.  Take him

to Onabasha, and to Chicago with you.  Use every art you possess. 

If the old charm can be revived I will be the first to wish

both of you well.  Now, I must return to my visitors. 

Kindly excuse me."

Elnora turned and went back to the arbour.  Edith Carr

followed the fence and passed through the gate into

the west woods where she asked Henderson about the car. 

As she stood near him she whispered:  "Take Phil back

to Onabasha with us."

"I say, Ammon, can't you go to the city with us and

help me find a shop where I can get this pinion fixed?"

asked Henderson.  "We want to lunch and start back by five. 

That will get us home about midnight.  Why don't you

bring your automobile here?"

"I am a working man," said Philip.  "I have no time to

be out motoring.  I can't see anything the matter with

your car, myself; but, of course you don't want to break

down in the night, on strange roads, with women on your hands. 

I'll see."

Philip went into the arbour, where Polly took possession of

his lap, fingered his hair, and kissed his forehead and lips.

"When are you coming to the cottage, Phil?" she asked. 

"Come soon, and bring Miss Comstock for a visit.  All of

us will be so glad to have her."

Philip beamed on Polly.  "I'll see about that," he said. 

"Sounds pretty good.  Elnora, Henderson is in trouble

with his automobile.  He wants me to go to Onabasha

with him to show him where the doctor lives, and make

repairs so he can start back this evening.  It will take

about two hours.  May I go?"

"Of course, you must go," she said, laughing lightly. 

"You can't leave your sister.  Why don't you return to

Chicago with them?  There is plenty of room, and you

could have a fine visit."

"I'll be back in just two hours," said Philip.  "While I

am gone, you be thinking over what we were talking of

when the folks came."

"Miss Comstock can go with us as well as not," said Polly. 

"That back seat was made for three, and I can sit on your lap."

"Come on!  Do come!" urged Philip instantly, and

Tom Levering joined him, but Henderson and Edith

silently waited at the gate.

"No, thank you," laughed Elnora.  "That would crowd you,

and it's warm and dusty.  We will say good-bye here."

She offered her hand to all of them, and when she came

to Philip she gave him one long steady look in the eyes,

then shook hands with him also.

CHAPTER XXIII

WHEREIN ELNORA REACHES A DECISION,

AND FRECKLES AND THE ANGEL APPEAR

Well, she came, didn't she?" remarked Mrs. Comstock

to Elnora as they watched the automobile speed down

the road.  As it turned the Limberlost corner, Philip

arose and waved to them.

"She hasn't got him yet, anyway," said Mrs. Comstock,

taking heart.  "What's that on your finger, and what did

she say to you?"

Elnora explained about the ring as she drew it off.

"I have several letters to write, then I am going to

change my dress and walk down toward Aunt Margaret's

for a little exercise.  I may meet some of them, and I don't

want them to see this ring.  You keep it until Philip

comes," said Elnora.  "As for what Miss Carr said to me,

many things, two of importance: one, that I lacked every

social requirement necessary for the happiness of Philip

Ammon, and that if I married him I would see inside a

month that he was ashamed of me----"

"Aw, shockins!" scorned Mrs. Comstock.  "Go on!"

"The other was that she has been engaged to him for

years, that he belongs to her, and she refuses to give

him up.  She said that if he were in her presence one hour,

she would have him under a mysterious thing she calls `her

spell' again; if he were where she could see him for one

week, everything would be made up.  It is her opinion

that he is suffering from wounded pride, and that the

slightest concession on her part will bring him to his knees

before her."

Mrs. Comstock giggled.  "I do hope the boy isn't weak-kneed,"

she said.  "I just happened to be passing the west window

this afternoon----"

Elnora laughed.  "Nothing save actual knowledge ever

would have made me believe there was a girl in all this

world so infatuated with herself.  She speaks casually of

her power over men, and boasts of `bringing a man to his

knees' as complacently as I would pick up a net and say:

`I am going to take a butterfly.'  She honestly believes

that if Philip were with her a short time she could rekindle

his love for her and awaken in him every particle of

the old devotion.  Mother, the girl is honest!  She is

absolutely sincere!  She so believes in herself and the

strength of Phil's love for her, that all her life she will

believe in and brood over that thought, unless she is

taught differently.  So long as she thinks that, she will

nurse wrong ideas and pine over her blighted life.  She must

be taught that Phil is absolutely free, and yet he will not go

to her."

"But how on earth are you proposing to teach her that?"

"The way will open."

"Lookey here, Elnora!" cried Mrs. Comstock.  "That Carr

girl is the handsomest dark woman I ever saw.  She's got

to the place where she won't stop at anything.  Her coming

here proves that.  I don't believe there was a thing

the matter with that automobile.  I think that was a

scheme she fixed up to get Phil where she could see him

alone, as she worked to see you.  If you are going

deliberately to put Philip under her influence again, you've

got to brace yourself for the possibility that she may win. 

A man is a weak mortal, where a lovely woman is concerned,

and he never denied that he loved her once.  You may make

yourself downright miserable."

"But mother, if she won, it wouldn't make me half so

miserable as to marry Phil myself, and then read hunger

for her in his eyes!  Some one has got to suffer over this. 

If it proves to be me, I'll bear it, and you'll never hear a

whisper of complaint from me.  I know the real Philip

Ammon better in our months of work in the fields than she

knows him in all her years of society engagements. 

So she shall have the hour she asked, many, many of them,

enough to make her acknowledge that she is wrong. 

Now I am going to write my letters and take my walk."

Elnora threw her arms around her mother and kissed

her repeatedly.  "Don't you worry about me," she said. 

"I will get along all right, and whatever happens, I always

will be your girl and you my darling mother."

She left two sealed notes on her desk.  Then she

changed her dress, packed a small bundle which she

dropped with her hat from the window beside the willow,

and softly went down stairs.  Mrs. Comstock was in

the garden.  Elnora picked up the hat and bundle, hurried

down the road a few rods, then climbed the fence and

entered the woods.  She took a diagonal course, and after

a long walk reached a road two miles west and one south. 

There she straightened her clothing, put on her hat and a

thin dark veil and waited the passing of the next trolley. 

She left it at the first town and took a train for Fort Wayne. 

She made that point just in time to climb on the evening

train north, as it pulled from the station.  It was after

midnight when she left the car at Grand Rapids, and went

into the depot to await the coming of day.

Tired out, she laid her head on her bundle and fell asleep

on a seat in the women's waiting-room.  Long after light

she was awakened by the roar and rattle of trains.  She washed,

re-arranged her hair and clothing, and went into the general

waiting-room to find her way to the street.  She saw him as

he entered the door.  There was no mistaking the tall,

lithe figure, the bright hair, the lean, brown-splotched face,

the steady gray eyes.  He was dressed for travelling, and

carried a light overcoat and a bag.  Straight to him Elnora

went speeding.

"Oh, I was just starting to find you!" she cried.

"Thank you!" he said.

"You are going away?" she panted.

"Not if I am needed.  I have a few minutes.  Can you

be telling me briefly?"

"I am the Limberlost girl to whom your wife gave the

dress for Commencement last spring, and both of you sent

lovely gifts.  There is a reason, a very good reason, why I

must be hidden for a time, and I came straight to you--as

if I had a right."

"You have!" answered Freckles.  "Any boy or girl who

ever suffered one pang in the Limberlost has a claim

to the best drop of blood in my heart.  You needn't be

telling me anything more.  The Angel is at our cottage

on Mackinac.  You shall tell her and play with the babies

while you want shelter.  This way!"

They breakfasted in a luxurious car, talked over the

swamp, the work of the Bird Woman; Elnora told of her

nature lectures in the schools, and soon they were

good friends.  In the evening they left the train at

Mackinaw City and crossed the Straits by boat.  Sheets of

white moonlight flooded the water and paved a molten path

across the breast of it straight to the face of the moon.

The island lay a dark spot on the silver surface, its tall

trees sharply outlined on the summit, and a million lights

blinked around the shore.  The night guns boomed from

the white fort and a dark sentinel paced the ramparts

above the little city tucked down close to the water. 

A great tenor summering in the north came out on the upper

deck of the big boat, and baring his head, faced the moon

and sang:  "Oh, the moon shines bright on my old

Kentucky home!"  Elnora thought of the Limberlost, of

Philip, and her mother, and almost choked with the sobs

that would arise in her throat.  On the dock a woman of

exquisite beauty swept into the arms of Terence O'More.

"Oh, Freckles!" she cried.  "You've been gone a month!"

"Four days, Angel, only four days by the clock,"

remonstrated Freckles.  "Where are the children?"

"Asleep!  Thank goodness!  I'm worn to a thread.  I never

saw such inventive, active children.  I can't keep track of them!"

"I have brought you help," said Freckles.  "Here is the

Limberlost girl in whom the Bird Woman is interested. 

Miss Comstock needs a rest before beginning her school

work for next year, so she came to us."

"You dear thing!  How good of you!" cried the Angel. 

"We shall be so happy to have you!"

In her room that night, in a beautiful cottage furnished

with every luxury, Elnora lifted a tired face to the Angel.

"Of course, you understand there is something back of

this?" she said.  "I must tell you."

"Yes," agreed the Angel.  "Tell me!  If you get it out

of your system, you will stand a better chance of sleeping."

Elnora stood brushing the copper-bright masses of her

hair as she talked.  When she finished the Angel was

almost hysterical.

"You insane creature!" she cried.  "How crazy of you

to leave him to her!  I know both of them.  I have met

them often.  She may be able to make good her boast. 

But it is perfectly splendid of you!  And, after all, really

it is the only way.  I can see that.  I think it is what I

should have done myself, or tried to do.  I don't know

that I could have done it!  When I think of walking away

and leaving Freckles with a woman he once loved, to let

her see if she can make him love her again, oh, it gives me

a graveyard heart.  No, I never could have done it!  You are

bigger than I ever was.  I should have turned coward, sure."

"I am a coward," admitted Elnora.  "I am soul-sick! 

I am afraid I shall lose my senses before this is over. 

I didn't want to come!  I wanted to stay, to go straight

into his arms, to bind myself with his ring, to love him

with all my heart.  It wasn't my fault that I came. 

There was something inside that just pushed me.  She is

beautiful----"

"I quite agree with you!"

"You can imagine how fascinating she can be.  She used

no arts on me.  Her purpose was to cower me.  She found

she could not do that, but she did a thing which helped

her more: she proved that she was honest, perfectly

sincere in what she thought.  She believes that if she

merely beckons to Philip, he will go to her.  So I am giving

her the opportunity to learn from him what he will do. 

She never will believe it from any one else.  When she is

satisfied, I shall be also."

"But, child! Suppose she wins him back!"

"That is the supposition with which I shall eat and sleep

for the coming few weeks.  Would one dare ask for a peep

at the babies before going to bed?"

"Now, you are perfect!" announced the Angel.  "I never

should have liked you all I can, if you had been content

to go to sleep in this house without asking to see

the babies.  Come this way.  We named the first boy

for his father, of course, and the girl for Aunt Alice. 

The next boy is named for my father, and the baby for

the Bird Woman.  After this we are going to branch out."

Elnora began to laugh.

"Oh, I suspect there will be quite a number of them,"

said the Angel serenely.  "I am told the more there are

the less trouble they make.  The big ones take care of the

little ones.  We want a large family.  This is our start."

She entered a dark room and held aloft a candle.  She went

to the side of a small white iron bed in which lay a

boy of eight and another of three.  They were perfectly

formed, rosy children, the elder a replica of his mother,

the other very like.  Then they came to a cradle where a

baby girl of almost two slept soundly, and made a picture.

"But just see here!" said the Angel.  She threw the light

on a sleeping girl of six.  A mass of red curls swept

the pillow.  Line and feature the face was that of Freckles. 

Without asking, Elnora knew the colour and expression

of the closed eyes.  The Angel handed Elnora the candle,

and stooping, straightened the child's body.  She ran

her fingers through the bright curls, and lightly touched

the aristocratic little nose.

"The supply of freckles holds out in my family, you see!"

she said.  "Both of the girls will have them, and the

second boy a few."

She stood an instant longer, then bending, ran her hand

caressingly down a rosy bare leg, while she kissed the

babyish red mouth.  There had been some reason for

touching all of them, the kiss fell on the lips which were

like Freckles's.

To Elnora she said a tender good-night, whispering

brave words of encouragement and making plans to fill

the days to come.  Then she went away.  An hour later

there was a light tap on the girl's door.

"Come!" she called as she lay staring into the dark.

The Angel felt her way to the bedside, sat down and

took Elnora's hands.

"I just had to come back to you," she said.  "I have

been telling Freckles, and he is almost hurting himself

with laughing.  I didn't think it was funny, but he does. 

He thinks it's the funniest thing that ever happened. 

He says that to run away from Mr. Ammon, when you

had made him no promise at all, when he wasn't sure of

you, won't send him home to her; it will set him hunting you! 

He says if you had combined the wisdom of Solomon,

Socrates, and all the remainder of the wise men, you

couldn't have chosen any course that would have sealed

him to you so surely.  He feels that now Mr. Ammon will

perfectly hate her for coming down there and driving

you away.  And you went to give her the chance she wanted. 

Oh, Elnora!  It is becoming funny!  I see it, too!"

The Angel rocked on the bedside.  Elnora faced the

dark in silence.

"Forgive me," gulped the Angel.  "I didn't mean to laugh. 

I didn't think it was funny, until all at once it

came to me.  Oh, dear!  Elnora, it <i is> funny!  I've got

to laugh!"

"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.