"Good night, dear Mrs. Byrd; give my love to Elliston, and remember that in him and your work you have two priceless treasures which, even alone, will give you happiness."

"Oh, I know," she said, her eyes shining; "good night, and thank you for the house."

"Good night, and in the house's name, thank you," he answered from the door.

As she closed it, the brightness slowly faded from Mary's face. She looked at the clock--it was past ten.

"Not to-night, either," she said to herself. Her hand wandered to the telephone in the hall, but she drew it back. "No, better not," she thought, and, putting out the lights, walked resolutely upstairs. As, candle in hand, she pa.s.sed the door of Stefan's room, she looked in.

His bed was smooth; a few trifles lay in orderly array upon his dressing table; boots, from which the country dust had been wiped days ago, stood with toes turned meekly to the wall. They looked lonely, she thought.

With a sigh, she entered her own room, and pa.s.sed through it to the nursery. There lay her baby, soundly sleeping, his cheek on the pillow, his little fists folded under his chin. How beautiful he looked, she thought; how sweet his little room, how fresh and peaceful all the house! It was the home of love--love lay all about her, in the kind protection of the trees, in the nests of the squirrels, in the voices and faces of her friends, and in her heart. Love was all about her, and the sweetness of young life--and she was utterly lonely. One short year ago she thought she would never know loneliness again--only a year ago.

The candle wavered in her hand; a drop of wax fell on the baby's spotless coverlet. Stooping, she blew upon it till it was cold, and carefully broke it off. She sat down in a low rocking chair, and lifting the baby, gave him his good-night nursing. He barely opened his sleep-laden eyes. She kissed him, made him tidy for the night, and laid him down, waiting while he cuddled luxuriously back to sleep.

"Little Stefan, little Stefan," she whispered.

Then, leaving the nursery door ajar, she undressed noiselessly, and lay down on the cool, empty bed.

II

The following afternoon about teatime Stefan bicycled up from the station. Mary, who was in the sitting room, heard him calling from the gate, but did not go to meet him. He hurried into the room and kissed her half-turned cheek effusively.

"Well, dear, aren't you glad to see me?" he asked rather nervously.

"Do you know that you've been away six days, Stefan, and have only troubled to telephone me twice?" she answered, in a voice carefully controlled.

"You don't mean it!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so long."

"Hadn't you?"

He fidgeted. "Well, dear, you know I'm frightfully keen on this new picture, and the journeys back and forth waste so much time. But as for the telephoning, I'm awfully sorry. I've been so absorbed I simply didn't remember. Why didn't you ring me up?"

"I didn't wish to interrupt a sitting. I rang twice in the evenings, but you were out."

"Yes; I've been trying to amuse myself a little." He was rocking from one foot to the other like a detected schoolboy.

"Hang it all, Mary," he burst out, "don't be so judicial. One must have some pleasure--I can't sit about this cottage all the time."

"I don't think I've asked you to do that."

"You haven't, but you seem to be implying the request now."

She was chilled to silence, having no heart to reason him out of so unreasonable a defense.

"Well, anyway," he said, flinging himself on the sofa, "here I am, so let's make the best of it. Tea ready?"

"It's just coming."

"That's good. When are you coming up to see the picture? It's going to be the best I've done. I shall get Constantine to exhibit it and that stick of a Demeter together, and then the real people and the fools will both have something to admire."

"You say this will be your best?" asked Mary, whom the phrase had stabbed.

"Well," he said reflectively, lighting a cigarette, "perhaps not better than the Danae in one sense--it hasn't as much feeling, but has more originality. Miss Berber is such an unusual type--she's quite an inspiration."

"And I'm not, any more," Mary could not help adding in a m.u.f.fled voice.

"Don't be so literal, my dear; of course you are, but not for this sort of picture." The a.s.surance sounded perfunctory.

"Thank goodness, here comes the tea," he exclaimed as Lily entered with the tray. "Hullo, Lily; how goes it?"

"Fine, Mr. Byrd, but we've sh.o.r.ely missed you," she answered, with something less than her usual wholehearted smile.

"Well, you must rejoice, now that the prodigal has returned," he grinned. "Mary, you haven't answered my question yet--when are you coming in to see the picture? Why not to-morrow? I'm dying to show it to you."

She flushed. "I can't come, Stefan; it's impossible to leave Baby so long."

"Well, bring him with you."

"That wouldn't be possible, either; it would disturb his sleep, and upset him."

"There you are!" he exclaimed, ruffling his hair. "I can't work down here, and you can't come to town--how can I help seeming to neglect you?

Look here"--he had drunk his tea at a gulp, and now held out his cup for more--"if you're lonely, why not move back to the city--then you could keep your eye on me!" and he grinned again.

For some time Mary had feared this suggestion--she had not yet discussed with Stefan her desire to stay in the country. She pressed her hands together nervously.

"Stefan, do you really want me to move back?"

"I want you to do whatever will make you happier," he temporized.

"If you really needed me there I would come. But you are always so absorbed when you're working, and I am so busy with Baby, that I don't believe we should have much more time together than now."

"Neither do I," he agreed, in a tone suspiciously like relief, which she was quick to catch.

"On the other hand," she went on, "this place is far better for Baby, and I am devoted to it. We couldn't afford anything half as comfortable in the city, and you like it, too, in the summer."

"Of course I do," he answered cheerfully. "I should hate to give it up, and I'm sure it's much more economical, and all that. Still, if you stay here through the winter you mustn't be angry if I am in town part of the time--my work has got to come first, you know."

"Yes, of course, dear," said Mary, wistfully, "and I think it would be a mistake for me to come unless you really wanted me."

"Of course I want you, Beautiful."

He spoke easily, but she was not deceived. She knew he was glad of the arrangement, not for her sake, but for his own. She had watched him fretting for weeks past, like a caged bird, and she had the wisdom to see that her only hope of making him desire the nest again lay in giving him freedom from it. Her pride fortified this perception. As she had said long ago, Mary was no bargainer.

In spite of her comprehension, however, she warmed toward him. It was so good to see him lounging on the sofa again, his green-gold eyes bright, his brown face with its elfish smile radiant now that his point was won. She knew he had been unkind to her both in word and act, but it was impossible not to forgive him, now that she enjoyed again the comfort of his presence.