"Were you surprised?"

"My land, yes! I'd thought maybe he'd come, but not without tellin' me when, or askin' for permission, as he'd said. He come in and took off his hat just like he was expected, and he shook hands with Ma and me. He only said 'How do you do Mis' Starr?' to her, but to me, he says: 'I'm glad to see you, Miss Matilda. How well you're looking!' Yes--just like that.

"We went and set down in the parlour. I'd cleaned the lamp that day, too--it was the same lamp Ma's took up-stairs with her now. It was on the centre-table, by the basket of wax-flowers under the gla.s.s shade.

They was almost new then and none of 'em was broken. They looked awful pretty.

"Ma came in the parlour, too, and she set down between him and me, and she says: 'I've been wantin' to ask you something ever since I heard your last sermon, three weeks ago come Sunday. I ain't been to church since and I can't feel like I ought to go.'

"'I'm sorry,' he says, just as gentle. 'If you have any doubts that I can clear up,' he says, 'about the Scripture----'

"''Tain't the Scripture I'm doubtin',' says Ma, 'it's you.'

"'That isn't as bad,' he says, smilin', but I could see he was scared.

You know how Ma is--especially when you ain't used to her.

[Sidenote: Discussing Baptism]

"'I'd like to ask,' says Ma, 'whether you believe that unbaptised infants is goin' to be saved.'

"'Why, yes,' he says. 'I do,'

"'I suspicioned it,' Ma says. Oh, her voice was awful! 'May I ask you just what grounds you have for believin' such a thing?'

"'I don't know as I could tell you just what grounds I have,' he says, 'but I certainly feel that the G.o.d I humbly try to serve is not only just but merciful. And if there's anything on earth purer or more like a flower than a little baby,' he says, 'I don't know what it is, whether it's been baptised or not. I don't think G.o.d cares so much about forms and ceremonies as he does about people's hearts,' Them's the very words he said.

"Well," resumed Matilda, after a pause, "Ma was bent on arguin' with him, about that, and baptisin' by sprinklin' or by immersion, and about the lost tribes of Israel, and goodness knows what else. He didn't want to argue, and was all the time tryin' to change the subject, but it was no use. I never got a chance to say a dozen words to him, and finally, when he got up to go, he says: 'I've had a very pleasant evenin', and I'd like to come again sometime soon, if I may,' he says. Just like that.

[Sidenote: A Souvenir]

"And before I could say a word, Ma had said: 'I dunno as we feel ourselves in need of your particular brand of theology,' she says. 'It's my opinion that you ought to be up before the trustees instead of around callin' on faithful members of the church, sowin' the seeds of doubt in their minds.'"

"His face turned bright red, but he shook hands with Ma, very polite, and with me. I've always thought he squeezed my hand a little. And he says to me, very pleasant: 'Good-night, Miss Matilda,' but that was all, for Ma went to the door with him and banged it shut before he'd got down the steps.

"The day before he went away, I met him in the post-office, accidental, and he says: 'Miss Matilda, I've got somethin' for you if you'll accept it,' and he took me over to one side where there couldn't n.o.body see us, and he give me his tintype. And he says: 'I hope you'll always remember me, Miss Matilda. You'll promise not to forget me, won't you?'

"And I promised," she resumed, "and I ain't. I've always remembered."

There was a long silence, then Miss Matilda cleared her throat. "Light the candle, Rosemary, will you?"

When the tiny flame appeared, Rosemary saw that the older woman's face was wet with unaccustomed tears. She reached down into the bosom of her dress and drew out a small packet, which she removed carefully from its many wrappings. "See," she said.

[Sidenote: It Might Have Been]

Rosemary leaned over to look at the pictured face. The heavy beard did not wholly conceal the sensitive, boyish mouth, and even the crude art had faithfully portrayed the dreamy, boyish eyes.

"I want to ask you something," Aunt Matilda said, as she wrapped it up again. "You're going to be married yourself, now, and you'll know about such things. Do you think, if it hadn't been for Ma, it might have been--anything?"

Rosemary put out the light. "I'm sure it would," she said, kindly.

"Oh, Rosemary!" breathed the other, with a quick indrawing of the breath. "Are you truly sure?"

"Truly," said Rosemary, very softly. Then she added, convincingly: "You know Alden's never been to see me but once, and I haven't even a tintype of him, and yet we're going to be married."

"That's so. I hadn't thought of that. I guess you're right." Then she added, generously, "I'm glad you're goin' to be married, Rosemary, and I hope you'll be happy. You've got it comin' to you."

"Thank you," said Rosemary, choking a little on the words. "Thank you, dear Aunt Matilda." Then someway, in the dark, their arms found each other and their lips met.

XXV

A Wedding

[Sidenote: By the Sea]

The air was crystalline and cool, yet soft, and full of a mysterious, spicy fragrance. Blue skies arched down at the vast curve of the horizon to meet a bluer sea. Snowy gulls swept lazily through the clear blue s.p.a.ces, their hoa.r.s.e crying softened into a weird music. Upon the dazzling reaches of white sand, Rosemary was walking with Alden.

He had his arm around her and her face was turned toward his. He was radiant with youth and the joy of living. It was in the spring of his step upon the sand, the strong, muscular lines of his body, and, more than all, in his face. In his eyes were the strange, sweet fires that Rosemary had seen the day she was hidden in the thicket and saw him holding Edith in his arms. But it was all for her now, for Rosemary, and the past was as dead as though it had never been.

As they walked, they talked, saying to each other the thousand dear and foolish things that lovers have said since, back in the Garden, the First Woman looked into the eyes of the First Man and knew that G.o.d had made her to be his mate. Suddenly a white cliff loomed up on the beach before them and from its depths came a tremendous knocking, as though some one were endeavouring to escape from a hopeless fastness of stone.

[Sidenote: A Stroke]

They paused, but the knocking continued, growing louder and louder. Then a hoa.r.s.e voice called "Rosemary! Rosemary!"

The girl came to herself with a start, rubbing her eyes. Gaunt and grey in the first dim light of morning, Aunt Matilda stood over her, clad in a nondescript dressing-gown.

"Rosemary!" she whispered, shrilly. "Come quick! Ma's had a stroke!"

They ran back to the old lady's room. In the girl's confused remembrance the narrow hallway seemed to be a continuation of the white, sunlit beach, with the blue sky and sea changed to faded wall paper, and the cliff gone.

Grandmother lay upon her bed, helpless, uttering harsh, guttural sounds that seemingly bore no relation to speech. Her eyes blazed at the sight of Rosemary and she tried to sit up in bed, but could not.

"When?" asked Rosemary.

"Just now," Aunt Matilda answered. "I was asleep, and when I woke up I heard her. She must have woke me up. What shall we do?" she continued, helplessly, after a pause.

[Sidenote: A Lie]

"I don't know," Rosemary whispered, almost stunned by the shock. "I'll dress and go for the doctor."

In an hour she had returned with the physician, who felt the old lady's pulse, and shook his head. In the hall, he interviewed the other two.

"Has she had any shock?" he asked.

For a moment there was no answer, then Matilda answered clearly: "No."