I could have danced and sung with happiness. "Oh," said I, "then I must have been a better scholar than I thought. I feel as if I could teach psychology--this minute."

"You could," said he, "this minute." And we both laughed and didn't know, after all, what we were laughing at--at least I didn't. But suddenly I was cold with fear.

"Why," I said, "if you've only really decided to go to-night, how do you know you can get a pa.s.sage on our ship?"

"Because, sweet Lady Reason," said he, "I used Charlie Ned's telephone and found out." (That was a pretty name--sweet Lady Reason.)

We didn't talk any more then for a long time, because suddenly the moon seemed so bright and the garden so sweet. But all at once I heard a step on the gravel walk, and I knew who it was. "That's Charles Edward," I said. "He's been home with Aunt Elizabeth. We must go in."

"No!" said he. "No, Peggy. There won't be such another night." Then he laughed quickly and got up. "Yes," he said, "there will be such nights--over and over again. Come, Peggy, little psychologist, we'll go in."

We found Lorraine and Charles Edward standing in the middle of the room, holding hands and looking at each other. "You're a hero," Lorraine was saying, "and a gentleman and a scholar and my own particular Peter."

"Don't admire me," said Charles Edward, "or you'll get me so bellicose I shall have to challenge Lyman Wilde. Poor old chap! I believe to my soul he's had the spirit to make off."

"Speak gently of Lyman Wilde," said Lorraine. "I never forget what we owe him. Sometimes I burn a candle to his photograph. I've even dropped a tear before it. Well, children?" She turned her bright eyes on us as if she liked us very much, and we two stood facing them two, and it all seemed quite solemn. Suddenly Charles Edward put out his hand and shook Mr. Dane's, and they both looked very much moved, as grandmother would say. I hadn't known they liked each other so well.

"Do you know what time it is?" said Lorraine. "Half-past eleven by Shrewsbury clock. I'll bake the cakes and draw the ale."

"Gee whiz!" said Mr. Dane. I'd never heard things like that. It sounded like Billy, and I liked it. "I've got to catch that midnight train."

For a minute it seemed as if we all stood shouting at one another, Lorraine asking him to stay all night, Charles Edward giving him a cigar to smoke on the way, I explaining to Lorraine that I'd sleep on the parlor sofa and leave the guest-room free, and Mr. Dane declaring he'd got a million things to do before sailing. Then he and Charles Edward dashed out into the night, as Alice would say, and I should have thought it was a dream that he'd been there at all except that I felt his touch on my hand. And Lorraine put her arms round me and kissed me and said, "Now, you sweet child, run up-stairs and look at the moonlight and dream--and dream--and dream."

I don't know whether I slept that night; but, if I did, I did not dream.

The next forenoon I waited until eleven o'clock before I went home. I wanted to be sure Aunt Elizabeth was safely away at Whitman. Yet, after all, I did not dread her now. I had been told what to do. Some one was telling me of a song the other day, "Command me, dear." I had been commanded to stop thinking of all those things I hated. I had done it.

Mother met me at the steps. She seemed a little anxious, but when she had put her hand on my shoulder and really looked at me she smiled the way I love to see her smile. "That's a good girl!" said she. Then she added, quickly, as if she thought I might not like it and ought to know at once, "Aunt Elizabeth saw Dr. Denbigh going by to Whitman, and she asked him to take her over."

"Did she?" said I. "Oh, mother, the old white rose is out!"

"There they are, back again," said mother. "He's leaving her at the gate."

Well, we both waited for Aunt Elizabeth to come up the path. I picked the first white rose and made mother smell it, and when I had smelled it myself I began to sing under my breath, "Come into the garden, Maud,"

because I remembered last night.

"Hush, child," said mother, quickly. "Elizabeth, you are tired. Come right in."

Aunt Elizabeth's lip trembled a little. I thought she was going to cry.

I had never known her to cry, though I had seen tears in her eyes, and I remember once, when she was talking to Dr. Denbigh, Charles Edward noticed them and laughed. "Those are not idle tears, Peg," he said to me "They're getting in their work."

Now I was so sorry for her that I stopped thinking of last night and put it all away. It seemed cruel to be so happy. Aunt Elizabeth sat down on the step and mother brought her an eggnog. It had been all ready for grandmother, and I could see mother thought Aunt Elizabeth needed it, if she was willing to make grandmother wait.

"Ada," said Aunt Elizabeth, suddenly, as she sipped it, "what was Dr.

Denbigh's wife like?"

"Why," said mother, "I'd almost forgotten he had a wife, it was so long ago. She died in the first year of their marriage."

Aunt Elizabeth laughed a little, almost as if no one were there. "He began to talk about her quite suddenly this morning," she said. "It seems Peg reminds him of her. He is devoted to her memory. That's what he said--devoted to her memory."

"That's good," said mother, cheerfully, as if she didn't know quite what to say. "More letters, Lily? Any for us?" I could see mother was very tender of her for some reason, or she never would have called her Lily.

"For me," said Aunt Elizabeth, as if she were tired. "From Mrs.

Chataway. A package, too. It looks like visiting-cards. That seems to be from her, too." She broke open the package. "Why!" said she, "of all things! Why!"

"That's pretty engraving," said mother, looking over her shoulder.

She must have thought they were Aunt Elizabeth's cards. "Why! of all things!"

Aunt Elizabeth began to flush pink and then scarlet. She looked as pretty as a rose, but a little angry, I thought. She put up her head rather haughtily. "Mrs. Chataway is very eccentric," she said. "A genius, quite a genius in her own line. Ada, I won't come down to luncheon. This has been sufficient. Let me have some tea in my own room at four, please." She got up, and her letter and one of the cards fell to the floor. I picked them up for her, and I saw on the card:

Mrs. Ronald Chataway Magnetic Healer and Mediumistic Divulger Lost Articles a Specialty

I don't know why, but I thought, like mother and Aunt Elizabeth, "Well, of all things!"

But the rest of that day mother and I were too busy to exchange a word about Mrs. Chataway or even Aunt Elizabeth. We plunged into my preparations to sail, and talked dresses and hats, and ran ribbons in things, and I burned letters and one photograph (I burned that without looking at it), and suddenly mother got up quickly and dropped her lapful of work. "My stars!" said she, "I've forgotten Aunt Elizabeth's tea."

"It's of no consequence, dear," said Aunt Elizabeth's voice at the door.

"I asked Katie to bring it up."

"Why," said mother, "you're not going?"

I held my breath. Aunt Elizabeth looked so pretty. She was dressed, as I never saw her before, a close-fitting black gown and a plain white collar and a little close black hat. She looked almost like some sister of charity.

"Ada," said she, "and Peggy, I am going to tell you something, and it is my particular desire that you keep it from the whole family. They would not understand. I am going to ally myself with Mrs. Chataway in a connection which will lead to the widest possible influence for her and for me. In Mrs. Chataway's letter to-day she urges me to join her. She says I have enormous magnetism and--and other qualifications."

"Don't you want me to tell Cyrus?" said mother. She spoke quite faintly.

"You can simply tell Cyrus that I have gone to Mrs. Chataway's," said Aunt Elizabeth. "You can also tell him I shall be too occupied to return. Good-bye, Ada. Good-bye, Peggy. Remember, it is the bruised herb that gives out the sweetest odor."

Before I could stop myself I had laughed, out of happiness, I think. For I remembered how the spearmint had smelled in the garden when Stillman Dane and I stepped on it in the dark and how bright the moon was, and I knew n.o.body could be unhappy very long.

"I telephoned for a carriage," said Aunt Elizabeth. "There it is." She and mother were going down the stairs, and suddenly I felt I couldn't have her go like that.

"Oh, Aunt--Aunt Lily!" I called. "Stop! I want to speak to you." I ran after her. "I'm going to have a profession, too," I said. "I'm going to devote my life to it, and I am just as glad as I can be." I put my arms round her and kissed her on her soft, pink cheeks, and we both cried a little. Then she went away.

XII. THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY, by Henry Van d.y.k.e

"Eastridge, June 3, 1907.

"To Gerrit Wendell, The Universe Club, New York:

"Do you remember promise? Come now, if possible. Much needed.

"Cyrus Talbert."

This was the telegram that Peter handed me as I came out of the coat-room at the Universe and stood under the lofty gilded ceiling of the great hall, trying to find myself at home again in the democratic simplicity of the United States. For two years I had been travelling in the effete, luxurious Orient as a peace correspondent for a famous newspaper; sleeping under canvas in Syria, in mud houses in Persia, in paper cottages in j.a.pan; riding on camel-hump through Arabia, on horseback through Afghanistan, in palankeen through China, and faring on such food as it pleased Providence to send. The necessity of putting my next book through the press (The Setting Splendors of the East) had recalled me to the land of the free and the home of the brave. Two hours after I had landed from the steamship, thirty seconds after I had entered the club, there was Peter, in his green coat and bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, standing in the vast, cool hall among the immense columns of verd-antique, with my telegram on a silver tray, which he presented to me with a discreet expression of welcome in his well-trained face, as if he hesitated to inquire where I had been, but ventured to hope that I had enjoyed my holiday and that there was no bad news in my despatch.