"You are very clever."

"Thanks, Jean. Now take off that pretty little cap of yours, which is not half as beautiful as the hair it hides, and let me draw off your overshoes--I have a grievance against them, as well--and we'll just sit down and settle the affairs of the universe."

"I wish we could," she said, with a note that had lost most of its joyousness; "I rather wish we could. But where have you been hiding? And why? And did that afternoon we spent coasting bore you so that you have never asked me out since?"

"Oh, I've been busy," I said. "Very busy."

"Busy? At what?"

Then I could forbear no longer. My secret was about to burst from me. I took Jean's coat and cap; I seated her; I drew off her overshoes; I stirred the fire.

"Busy? Yes, I'm very busy. I have a big world to think about. In the words of the poet:

"I love not man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal."

"Lovely!" she exclaimed. "Why, Frank! . . . That's from--from----"

"I have you guessing, Jean," I remarked, dryly.

"You memorized that on purpose; you dug a pit for me," she protested.

"Still, better that than none. Come, 'fess up. Where is it?"

I drew my Byron from its place of concealment.

"Ah, if you had started at the beginning of the stanza with, 'There is a pleasure in the pathless wood,' I would have known," she said.

"Still----"

We turned the pages together, lingering through a new land of delight that was delicious and wonderful. I read "She walks in Beauty," and we sat in silence after the lines,

"A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent."

"I'm not so sure, Frank," she said at length. "My mind is not so much at peace as I could wish; my love is perhaps not so----"

She left the sentence unfinished.

"I know it is," I said, "I know it is."

The book lay open before us. Her hands had fallen on its printed pages.

I drew them slowly into mine; drew them up and about my neck. "Jean," I whispered, "You know there is only, ultimately, one answer. Why not give it now!"

"Not yet, Frank. We shall see. Don't you understand? I must wait and see whether you have really--outgrown yourself--or are just memorizing verses with me for a prize."

"All right," I said. "I'll wait and prove it. But I warn you--I can't foresee where this thing is going to lead. It may not be content with books, only; already I'm rather sure it will want more than books. It may lead me out into the world. There are other women, there, Jean," I added, significantly.

"I know. I understand. I must take my chance. It is worth even that to be sure--in the end."

After a while I made tea, and just as we were sitting down to it came a knock at the door. It was a sharp, dignified knock; not the boisterous thump which either Jack or Marjorie would have given it.

"Who's that?" we asked each other.

"Alas, we are discovered!" Jean rippled. "It is a real adventure."

I opened the door to find Spoof's tall figure outside, and in his arms a large and pudgy and uncertain bundle. It was a moment before I saw the second figure--that of a woman. She wore a heavy fur coat, and her face was veiled for the inclement day.

"Why, Spoof! . . . . Come in!" I commanded. "Jean and I are just having tea. Let me put your oxen in."

"They are all right for the moment; they're in the shelter. I must make some introductions, first."

We welcomed them in, and Spoof set his bundle down on end in the middle of the floor, and began to unwind it. The woman removed her coat and cap and veil. It was Mrs. Alton. The bundle resolved itself into Mrs.

Alton's boy.

"Miss Hall, let me present my wife," said Spoof. "My wife. And my son Gerald."

CHAPTER XXIII.

After the first blank moment of surprise I turned, not to Spoof or "Mrs.

Alton" or the boy, but to Jean. There was a momentary tremulousness, but almost instantly Jean had herself under control; she was more the artist than I knew. I began to realize how far her artistry carried.

"This _is_ news!" she cried. "When did----" She stopped short. A wave of color flushed her face. Gerald did not admit of casual explanation.

The child, now relieved of c.u.mbersome clothing, was standing on st.u.r.dy feet in the middle of the room getting his bearings. His big, intelligent eyes were losing no time in making an appraisal of me and mine.

Jean swooped upon him; clasped him up in her arms. Perhaps it was because at that moment she must have action. Her face was pressed into his little white neck. "Big Boy, Big Boy," she whispered, "why didn't you tell me this before?"

Spoof and his wife and I still stood as though rooted to the floor. The woman seemed to avoid my gaze, but when at times I caught a glimpse of her face there was something finer than embarra.s.sment in it; there was embarra.s.sment, it is true, but something almost seraphic as well.

Suddenly, "I think we women should go over to Twenty-two," Jean exclaimed. "Marjorie must know the great news. Come, Jerry!"

At the door the collie joined them, capering uneasily in the snow. Spoof and I watched them as they took their way along the well-trodden trail across the gully; then we stabled his oxen in silence.

Back in the house, Spoof drank a cup of tea and rolled me a cigarette--I never smoked cigarettes except under Spoof's malign influence--before he showed a disposition to talk. Then, seated on one of my rough benches, behind the blue haze of his own tobacco smoke, he spoke.

"It's a long story, Hall, if one covered all the details," he said.

"Fortunately, between friends, that isn't necessary."

"I married this woman that you know as Mrs. Alton five years ago Christmas Day. You will understand why Jack's wedding was something of an anniversary to me. In course of time Gerald was born. Up until then, and for some time afterwards, everything was all right.

"Then--something happened. In what I chose to call righteous indignation I turned her out. Perhaps it was more mortified pride, or just blind, beast jealousy. Never mind. Through it all I gave myself credit for being just, even generous. I gave her half of my ready money, which wasn't much; I've never been much of a money-grabber, Hall; it has always seemed such an inconsequential business. But I gave her half of what I had, and settled on Gerald the small income I could command, and let her keep the boy. That was the biggest thing. I see a good deal of it through different light to-day, but for letting her keep the boy I demand some credit still. I've done one or two hard things, Hall. Yon know. That was one of them."

He finished his cigarette and lit another.

"Then I came out here," he continued. "It seemed the wisest thing to do.

I was settling into the hope of forgetting it all and making a new start when she followed me." He held up his hand as if to silence me, although I had made no move to speak. "I don't blame her--now," he said. "But then--last summer, you know--it rather interfered. I may as well be frank with you. I had an idea that Jean would just about complete section Two. She's a wonderful girl, Jean.

"Then came Alice, and I knew _that_ wouldn't do. It would make blackmail too easy. I was base enough to think of that.