"But it's all happened before," he objected. "Is there anything new under the sun?"

"It's been new, at one time or another. We're always too late, that's all. Somebody ate the first oyster and somebody went to sleep first and somebody wore the first false hair.

"No," she continued, with a rose-pink flush mantling her face, "I don't.

If I did, I wouldn't mind saying so, but Nature gave me quant.i.ties of it, so why should I borrow more? Besides, I don't believe there is any more like it, so I couldn't, anyway."

"No," he returned, thoughtfully, "I don't believe there is any more like it, either. Your wish to be first in something is surely gratified, for there never was such hair as yours and never will be again."

[Sidenote: Red Hair and Auburn]

"Mother's was like it."

He shook his head. "No, it wasn't. I never saw your mother, but I know better than that."

"Ask your mother. There she is now."

Madame appeared at the head of the stairs, on the way to her room, to dress for luncheon. She paused to smile at the two who sat on the window-seat, then would have gone straight on had not Edith called to her.

"Mrs. Marsh! Isn't my hair exactly like my mother's?"

Madame came to her, turned the shining head a little more toward the sun, and patted the fluffiness caressingly. "No," she said, "though your mother had glorious hair, it was nothing like this. Hers was auburn and smooth, yours is reddish-gold--almost copper-coloured--and fluffy.

Besides, you must have nearly twice as much of it."

"There," said Alden, "I told you so."

"But," persisted Edith, "if it's really copper-coloured, it's common.

Look at the lady on the copper cent, for instance."

"The lady on the copper cent," returned Alden, "is a gentleman who wears feathers."

"But under his feathers he has hair the colour of this."

"He may not have any hair at all."

[Sidenote: What's the Matter with Her?]

They both laughed, and Madame smiled, though she did not quite understand what they were talking about. She was still smiling when she reached her own room, for she found it very pleasant to have Edith there, and was delighted to have Alden come to a realising sense of his duties as host.

He had, indeed, conducted himself admirably ever since Mrs. Lee's arrival, though he had been very quiet and reserved at first. With some trepidation, she had told him that she had invited the guest to remain indefinitely, tactfully choosing a moment after an unusually good dinner, when they chanced to be alone.

Alden had taken it calmly, betraying no outward sign of any sort of emotion. "What's the matter with her?" he had asked, curiously. "What's she in trouble about?"

"If she wants you to know, my son, she will tell you herself," Madame had replied, in a tone of gentle rebuke. "I have no right to violate her confidence."

He shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. "You don't need to squelch me like that, Mother. I don't know that I care, particularly. I was merely making conversation."

"Refined conversation is not made of impertinences," Madame suggested.

The words were harsh, but the tone was kind.

"Don't stab me with epigrams, please, for I don't believe I deserve it."

[Sidenote: Dream-Children]

Madame recalled every word they had said as she took down her afternoon gown of black silk, and began to sew frills of real lace in the neck and sleeves. She was glad he had been pleasant about it, for it seemed much more like living, someway, to have another woman in the house.

If Virginia had lived--she, too, had brown eyes, but her hair was brown also. She would have been four years older than Edith was now, and, undoubtedly, married. All Madame's feminine ancestors for generations back had been married. The only spinster in the family, so far as Madame knew, had remained true to the memory of a dead lover.

"Some women are born to be married, some achieve marriage, and others have marriage thrust upon them," Madame said to herself, unconsciously paraphrasing an old saying. Virginia would have been meant for it, too, and, by now, there would have been children in the old house, pattering back and forth upon the stairs, lisping words that meant no more than the bubbling of a fountain, and stretching up tiny hands that looked like crumpled rose-petals, pleading to be taken up and loved.

These dream-children tugged strangely at the old lady's heart-strings in her moments of reverie. Even yet, after Rosemary came--but they would not be like her own flesh and blood, as a daughter's children always are. Poor Rosemary! How miserable she was at home, and how little she would need to make her happy! To think that she dared not tell her Grandmother and Aunt that she was engaged to Alden! Madame's cheeks grew warm with resentment in the girl's behalf. Motherless, friendless, alone, with Life's great cup of wonder in her rough, red hands!

[Sidenote: "Fussed Over"]

A tap at the door made her start. "Come in!" she called.

It was Edith, trig and tailor-made, in dark green, with a crisp white linen shirtwaist, an immaculate collar, and a dashing green tie.

"Mr. Marsh has invited me to go for a drive after luncheon," she said, "and he asked me to come and see if you weren't almost ready. May I do your hair for you?"

Madame submitted, not because she cared to have her hair done, but because she liked to be "fussed over," as she put it. There was something very pleasant in the touch of Edith's cool, soft hands.

"You're--you're not going to change the way I do it, are you?" she asked, a little anxiously.

"No, indeed! I wouldn't change it for anything. It suits you just as it is."

"I'm glad you think so, for I've always worn it like this. Alden wouldn't know me if I became fashionable."

[Sidenote: It Isn't Right]

"He doesn't look a bit like you," said Edith, irrelevantly.

"No, but he's the living image of his father, and I'm very glad. It keeps me from--from missing him too much," Madame's voice broke a little on the last words.

"It must be lovely to be missed," said Edith, quickly. "Now I----"

"Dear, haven't you told him yet?"

"He's probably discovered it by this time. Still, I don't know--I've only been away a week."

"It isn't right," said Madame, decidedly. "You must let him know where you are."

"Why? I never know where he is."

"That doesn't make any difference. Two wrongs never make one perfect right. If you do your part, things will be only half wrong, instead of entirely so."

"I'll do whatever you think best," said Edith, humbly. "I came to you because I could think for myself no longer. I'll write him a note before luncheon, if you say so, and post it this afternoon."

"I do say so."