The Song of the Lark..........................................................................................................................................1

Willa Cather .............................................................................................................................................1

PART I. FRIENDS OF CHILDHOOD..................................................................................................2

I...............................................................................................................................................................2

II ..............................................................................................................................................................6

III .............................................................................................................................................................9

IV..........................................................................................................................................................11

V ............................................................................................................................................................15

VI..........................................................................................................................................................18

VII .........................................................................................................................................................22

VIII ........................................................................................................................................................27

IX..........................................................................................................................................................31

X ............................................................................................................................................................33

XI..........................................................................................................................................................35

XII .........................................................................................................................................................38

XIII ........................................................................................................................................................42

XIV.......................................................................................................................................................47

XV .........................................................................................................................................................50

XVI.......................................................................................................................................................53

XVII......................................................................................................................................................60

XVIII .....................................................................................................................................................62

XIX.......................................................................................................................................................67

XX .........................................................................................................................................................71

PART II. THE SONG OF THE LARK................................................................................................75

I.............................................................................................................................................................75

II ............................................................................................................................................................78

III ...........................................................................................................................................................80

IV..........................................................................................................................................................87

V ............................................................................................................................................................89

VI..........................................................................................................................................................93

VII .........................................................................................................................................................95

VIII ........................................................................................................................................................99

IX........................................................................................................................................................101

X ..........................................................................................................................................................104

XI........................................................................................................................................................108

PART III. STUPID FACES ................................................................................................................113

I...........................................................................................................................................................113

II ..........................................................................................................................................................118

III .........................................................................................................................................................121

IV........................................................................................................................................................124

V ..........................................................................................................................................................129

VI........................................................................................................................................................131

PART IV. THE ANCIENT PEOPLE.................................................................................................132

I...........................................................................................................................................................132

II ..........................................................................................................................................................133

III .........................................................................................................................................................135

IV........................................................................................................................................................136

V ..........................................................................................................................................................138

VI........................................................................................................................................................140

VII .......................................................................................................................................................144

VIII ......................................................................................................................................................147

PART V. DR. ARCHIE'S VENTURE...............................................................................................154

I...........................................................................................................................................................154

II ..........................................................................................................................................................157

III .........................................................................................................................................................161

IV........................................................................................................................................................163

V ..........................................................................................................................................................166

PART VI. KRONBORG .....................................................................................................................171

I...........................................................................................................................................................171

II ..........................................................................................................................................................174

III .........................................................................................................................................................179

IV........................................................................................................................................................182

V ..........................................................................................................................................................186

VI........................................................................................................................................................190

VII .......................................................................................................................................................194

VIII ......................................................................................................................................................199

IX........................................................................................................................................................202

X ..........................................................................................................................................................207

XI........................................................................................................................................................211

EPILOGUE .........................................................................................................................................216

Dr. Howard Archie had just come up from a game of pool with the Jewish clothier and two travel ing men

who happened to be staying overnight in Moon stone. His offices were in the Duke Block, over the drug

store. Larry, the doctor's man, had lit the overhead light in the waitingroom and the double student's lamp on

the desk in the study. The isinglass sides of the hardcoal burner were aglow, and the air in the study was so

hot that as he came in the doctor opened the door into his little operatingroom, where there was no stove.

The waiting room was carpeted and stiffly furnished, something like a country parlor. The study had worn,

unpainted floors, but there was a look of winter comfort about it. The doctor's flattop desk was large and

well made; the papers were in orderly piles, under glass weights. Behind the stove a wide bookcase, with

double glass doors, reached from the floor to the ceiling. It was filled with medical books of every thickness

and color. On the top shelf stood a long row of thirty or forty volumes, bound all alike in dark mottled board

As the doctor in New England villages is proverbially old, so the doctor in small Colorado towns twentyfive

years ago was generally young. Dr. Archie was barely thirty. He was tall, with massive shoulders which he

held stiffly, and a large, wellshaped head. He was a distin guishedlooking man, for that part of the world,

at least. There was something individual in the way in which his reddishbrown hair, parted cleanly at the

side, bushed over his high forehead. His nose was straight and thick, and his eyes were intelligent. He wore a

curly, reddish mustache and an imperial, cut trimly, which made him look a little like the pictures of

Napoleon III. His hands were large and well kept, but ruggedly formed, and the backs were shaded with

crinkly reddish hair. He wore a blue suit of woolly, widewaled serge; the traveling men had known at a

glance that it was made by a Denver tailor. The doctor was al ways well dressed.

Dr. Archie turned up the student's lamp and sat down in the swivel chair before his desk. He sat uneasily,

beating a tattoo on his knees with his fingers, and looked about him as if he were bored. He glanced at his

watch, then absently took from his pocket a bunch of small keys, selected one and looked at it. A

contemptuous smile, barely percepti ble, played on his lips, but his eyes remained meditative. Behind the

door that led into the hall, under his buffalo skin drivingcoat, was a locked cupboard. This the doctor

opened mechanically, kicking aside a pile of muddy over shoes. Inside, on the shelves, were whiskey

glasses and decanters, lemons, sugar, and bitters. Hearing a step in the empty, echoing hall without, the

doctor closed the cup board again, snapping the Yale lock. The door of the waitingroom opened, a man

His visitor was a tall, loosely built man, with a thin brown beard, streaked with gray. He wore a frock coat, a

broadbrimmed black hat, a white lawn necktie, and steel rimmed spectacles. Altogether there was a

pretentious and important air about him, as he lifted the skirts of his coat and sat down.

"Goodevening, doctor. Can you step around to the house with me? I think Mrs. Kronborg will need you this

evening." This was said with profound gravity and, curi ously enough, with a slight embarrassment.

"Any hurry?" the doctor asked over his shoulder as he went into his operatingroom.

Mr. Kronborg coughed behind his hand, and contracted his brows. His face threatened at every moment to

break into a smile of foolish excitement. He controlled it only by calling upon his habitual pulpit manner.

"Well, I think it would be as well to go immediately. Mrs. Kronborg will be more comfortable if you are

The doctor came back and threw a black bag upon his desk. He wrote some instructions for his man on a pre

scription pad and then drew on his overcoat. "All ready," he announced, putting out his lamp. Mr. Kronborg

rose and they tramped through the empty hall and down the stairway to the street. The drug store below was

dark, and the saloon next door was just closing. Every other light on Main Street was out.

On either side of the road and at the outer edge of the board sidewalk, the snow had been shoveled into

breast works. The town looked small and black, flattened down in the snow, muffled and all but

extinguished. Overhead the stars shone gloriously. It was impossible not to notice them. The air was so clear

that the white sand hills to the east of Moonstone gleamed softly. Following the Reverend Mr. Kronborg

along the narrow walk, past the little dark, sleeping houses, the doctor looked up at the flashing night and

whistled softly. It did seem that people were stupider than they need be; as if on a night like this there ought

to be something better to do than to sleep nine hours, or to assist Mrs. Kronborg in functions which she could

have performed so admirably unaided. He wished he had gone down to Denver to hear Fay Templeton sing

"SeeSaw." Then he remembered that he had a personal interest in this family, after all. They turned into

another street and saw before them lighted windows; a low storyandahalf house, with a wing built on at

the right and a kitchen addition at the back, everything a little on the slantroofs, windows, and doors. As

they approached the gate, Peter Kron borg's pace grew brisker. His nervous, ministerial cough annoyed the

doctor. "Exactly as if he were going to give out a text," he thought. He drew off his glove and felt in his vest

pocket. "Have a troche, Kronborg," he said, producing some. "Sent me for samples. Very good for a rough

"Ah, thank you, thank you. I was in something of a hurry. I neglected to put on my overshoes. Here we are,

The front hall was dark and cold; the hatrack was hung with an astonishing number of children's hats and

caps and cloaks. They were even piled on the table beneath the hatrack. Under the table was a heap of rubbers

and over shoes. While the doctor hung up his coat and hat, Peter Kronborg opened the door into the

livingroom. A glare of light greeted them, and a rush of hot, stale air, smelling of warming flannels.

At three o'clock in the morning Dr. Archie was in the parlor putting on his cuffs and coatthere was no

spare bedroom in that house. Peter Kronborg's seventh child, a boy, was being soothed and cosseted by his

aunt, Mrs. Kronborg was asleep, and the doctor was going home. But he wanted first to speak to Kronborg,

who, coatless and fluttery, was pouring coal into the kitchen stove. As the doctor crossed the diningroom he

paused and listened. From one of the wing rooms, off to the left, he heard rapid, distressed breathing. He

Kronborg hung up the stovelifter and dusted his fingers. "It must be Thea. I meant to ask you to look at her.

She has a croupy cold. But in my excitementMrs. Kronborg is doing finely, eh, doctor? Not many of your

"Oh, yes. She's a fine mother." The doctor took up the lamp from the kitchen table and unceremoniously went

into the wing room. Two chubby little boys were asleep in a double bed, with the coverlids over their noses

and their feet drawn up. In a single bed, next to theirs, lay a little girl of eleven, wide awake, two yellow

braids sticking up on the pillow behind her. Her face was scarlet and her eyes were blazing.

The doctor shut the door behind him. "Feel pretty sick, Thea?" he asked as he took out his thermometer.

She looked at him with greedy affection. "I thought you were here," she spoke between quick breaths. "There

He smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Bro ther," he said, taking her hand. "Open."

"Good. Brothers are better," she murmured as he put the glass tube under her tongue.

"Now, be still, I want to count." Dr. Archie reached for her hand and took out his watch. When he put her

hand back under the quilt he went over to one of the win dowsthey were both tight shutand lifted it a

little way. He reached up and ran his hand along the cold, un papered wall. "Keep under the covers; I'll

come back to you in a moment," he said, bending over the glass lamp with his thermometer. He winked at her

Peter Kronborg was sitting in his wife's room, holding the bundle which contained his son. His air of cheerful

importance, his beard and glasses, even his shirtsleeves, annoyed the doctor. He beckoned Kronborg into

"You've got a very sick child in there. Why didn't you call me before? It's pneumonia, and she must have

been sick for several days. Put the baby down somewhere, please, and help me make up the bedlounge here

in the parlor. She's got to be in a warm room, and she's got to be quiet. You must keep the other children out.

Here, this thing opens up, I see," swinging back the top of the car pet lounge. "We can lift her mattress and

carry her in just as she is. I don't want to disturb her more than is necessary."

Kronborg was all concern immediately. The two men took up the mattress and carried the sick child into the

parlor. "I'll have to go down to my office to get some medicine, Kronborg. The drug store won't be open.

Keep the covers on her. I won't be gone long. Shake down the stove and put on a little coal, but not too much;

so it'll catch quickly, I mean. Find an old sheet for me, and put it there to warm."

The doctor caught his coat and hurried out into the dark street. Nobody was stirring yet, and the cold was

bitter. He was tired and hungry and in no mild humor. "The idea!" he muttered; "to be such an ass at his age,

about the seventh! And to feel no responsibility about the little girl. Silly old goat! The baby would have got

into the world somehow; they always do. But a nice little girl like that she's worth the whole litter. Where

she ever got it from" He turned into the Duke Block and ran up the stairs to his office.

Thea Kronborg, meanwhile, was wondering why she happened to be in the parlor, where nobody but

company usually visiting preachersever slept. She had mo ments of stupor when she did not see

anything, and mo ments of excitement when she felt that something unusual and pleasant was about to

happen, when she saw every thing clearly in the red light from the isinglass sides of the hardcoal

burnerthe nickel trimmings on the stove itself, the pictures on the wall, which she thought very beautiful,

the flowers on the Brussels carpet, Czerny's "Daily Studies" which stood open on the upright piano. She

When she heard the front door open, it occurred to her that the pleasant thing which was going to happen was

Dr. Archie himself. He came in and warmed his hands at the stove. As he turned to her, she threw herself

wearily toward him, half out of her bed. She would have tumbled to the floor had he not caught her. He gave

her some medi cine and went to the kitchen for something he needed. She drowsed and lost the sense of his

being there. When she opened her eyes again, he was kneeling before the stove, spreading something dark

and sticky on a white cloth, with a big spoon; batter, perhaps. Presently she felt him taking off her nightgown.

He wrapped the hot plaster about her chest. There seemed to be straps which he pinned over her shoulders.

Then he took out a thread and needle and be gan to sew her up in it. That, she felt, was too strange; she must

Thea had been moaning with every breath since the doctor came back, but she did not know it. She did not

realize that she was suffering pain. When she was con scious at all, she seemed to be separated from her

body; to be perched on top of the piano, or on the hanging lamp, watching the doctor sew her up. It was

perplexing and unsatisfactory, like dreaming. She wished she could waken up and see what was going on.

The doctor thanked God that he had persuaded Peter Kronborg to keep out of the way. He could do better by

the child if he had her to himself. He had no children of his own. His marriage was a very unhappy one. As

he lifted and undressed Thea, he thought to himself what a beauti ful thing a little girl's body was,like a

flower. It was so neatly and delicately fashioned, so soft, and so milky white. Thea must have got her hair and

her silky skin from her mother. She was a little Swede, through and through. Dr. Archie could not help

thinking how he would cherish a little creature like this if she were his. Her hands, so lit tle and hot, so

clever, too,he glanced at the open exer cise book on the piano. When he had stitched up the flax seed

jacket, he wiped it neatly about the edges, where the paste had worked out on the skin. He put on her the

clean nightgown he had warmed before the fire, and tucked the blankets about her. As he pushed back the

hair that had fuzzed down over her eyebrows, he felt her head thought fully with the tips of his fingers. No,

he couldn't say that it was different from any other child's head, though he believed that there was something

very different about her. He looked intently at her wide, flushed face, freckled nose, fierce little mouth, and

her delicate, tender chinthe one soft touch in her hard little Scandinavian face, as if some fairy godmother

had caressed her there and left a cryptic promise. Her brows were usually drawn together defiantly, but never

when she was with Dr. Archie. Her affection for him was prettier than most of the things that went to make

The windows grew gray. He heard a tramping on the attic floor, on the back stairs, then cries: "Give me my

"I'll have to stay till they get off to school," he reflected, "or they'll be in here tormenting her, the whole lot of

For the next four days it seemed to Dr. Archie that his patient might slip through his hands, do what he might.

But she did not. On the contrary, after that she recovered very rapidly. As her father remarked, she must have

inherited the "constitution" which he was never tired of admiring in her mother.

One afternoon, when her new brother was a week old, the doctor found Thea very comfortable and happy in

her bed in the parlor. The sunlight was pouring in over her shoulders, the baby was asleep on a pillow in a big

rockingchair beside her. Whenever he stirred, she put out her hand and rocked him. Nothing of him was

visible but a flushed, puffy fore head and an uncompromisingly big, bald cranium. The door into her

mother's room stood open, and Mrs. Kronborg was sitting up in bed darning stockings. She was a short,

stalwart woman, with a short neck and a determinedlooking head. Her skin was very fair, her face calm and

unwrinkled, and her yellow hair, braided down her back as she lay in bed, still looked like a girl's. She was a

woman whom Dr. Archie respected; active, practical, unruffled; good humored, but determined. Exactly the

sort of woman to take care of a flighty preacher. She had brought her hus band some property, too,one

fourth of her father's broad acres in Nebraska,but this she kept in her own name. She had profound respect

for her husband's erudition and eloquence. She sat under his preaching with deep humility, and was as much

taken in by his stiff shirt and white neck ties as if she had not ironed them herself by lamplight the night

before they appeared correct and spotless in the pul pit. But for all this, she had no confidence in his

adminis tration of worldly affairs. She looked to him for morning prayers and grace at table; she expected

him to name the babies and to supply whatever parental sentiment there was in the house, to remember

birthdays and anniver saries, to point the children to moral and patriotic ideals. It was her work to keep their

bodies, their clothes, and their conduct in some sort of order, and this she accom plished with a success that

was a source of wonder to her neighbors. As she used to remark, and her husband ad miringly to echo, she

"had never lost one." With all his flightiness, Peter Kronborg appreciated the matteroffact, punctual way in

which his wife got her children into the world and along in it. He believed, and he was right in believing, that

the sovereign State of Colorado was much indebted to Mrs. Kronborg and women like her.

Mrs. Kronborg believed that the size of every family was decided in heaven. More modern views would not

have startled her; they would simply have seemed foolish thin chatter, like the boasts of the men who built

the tower of Babel, or like Axel's plan to breed ostriches in the chicken yard. From what evidence Mrs.

Kronborg formed her opinions on this and other matters, it would have been difficult to say, but once formed,

they were unchangeable. She would no more have questioned her convictions than she would have

questioned revelation. Calm and even tempered, naturally kind, she was capable of strong pre judices, and

When the doctor came in to see Thea, Mrs. Kronborg was reflecting that the washing was a week behind, and

de ciding what she had better do about it. The arrival of a new baby meant a revision of her entire domestic

schedule, and as she drove her needle along she had been working out new sleeping arrangements and

cleaning days. The doctor had entered the house without knocking, after making noise enough in the hall to

prepare his patients. Thea was reading, her book propped up before her in the sun light.

"Mustn't do that; bad for your eyes," he said, as Thea shut the book quickly and slipped it under the covers.

Mrs. Kronborg called from her bed: "Bring the baby here, doctor, and have that chair. She wanted him in

Before the doctor picked up the baby, he put a yellow paper bag down on Thea's coverlid and winked at her.

They had a code of winks and grimaces. When he went in to chat with her mother, Thea opened the bag

cautiously, trying to keep it from crackling. She drew out a long bunch of white grapes, with a little of the

sawdust in which they had been packed still clinging to them. They were called Malaga grapes in Moonstone,

and once or twice during the winter the leading grocer got a keg of them. They were used mainly for table

decoration, about Christmastime. Thea had never had more than one grape at a time before. When the

doctor came back she was holding the almost transparent fruit up in the sunlight, feeling the palegreen skins

softly with the tips of her fingers. She did not thank him; she only snapped her eyes at him in a special way

which he understood, and, when he gave her his hand, put it quickly and shyly under her cheek, as if she were

He was quite as shy as his patient, especially when a third person overheard his conversation. Big and hand

some and superior to his fellow townsmen as Dr. Archie was, he was seldom at his ease, and like Peter

Kronborg he often dodged behind a professional manner. There was sometimes a contraction of

embarrassment and self consciousness all over his big body, which made him awk wardlikely to

stumble, to kick up rugs, or to knock over chairs. If any one was very sick, he forgot himself, but he had a

Thea curled up on her side and looked at him with pleasure. "All right. I like to be sick. I have more fun then

"I don't have to go to school, and I don't have to prac tice. I can read all I want to, and have good things,"

she patted the grapes. "I had lots of fun that time I mashed my finger and you wouldn't let Professor Wunsch

make me practice. Only I had to do left hand, even then. I think that was mean."

The doctor took her hand and examined the forefinger, where the nail had grown back a little crooked. "You

mustn't trim it down close at the corner there, and then it will grow straight. You won't want it crooked when

She made a mocking little face at him and looked at his new scarfpin. "That's the prettiest one you evER

Dr. Archie laughed. "It's an opal. Spanish Johnny brought it up for me from Chihuahua in his shoe. I had it

Thea had a curious passion for jewelry. She wanted every shining stone she saw, and in summer she was

always going off into the sand hills to hunt for crystals and agates and bits of pink chalcedony. She had two

cigar boxes full of stones that she had found or traded for, and she imagined that they were of enormous

"What are you reading?" The doctor reached under the covers and pulled out a book of Byron's poems. "Do

She looked confused, turned over a few pages rapidly, and pointed to "My native land, goodnight." "That,"

She blushed and looked at him suspiciously. "I like 'There was a sound of revelry,'" she muttered.

The doctor laughed and closed the book. It was clumsily bound in padded leather and had been presented to

the Reverend Peter Kronborg by his SundaySchool class as an ornament for his parlor table.

"Come into the office some day, and I'll lend you a nice book. You can skip the parts you don't understand.

You can read it in vacation. Perhaps you'll be able to under stand all of it by then."

Thea frowned and looked fretfully toward the piano. "In vacation I have to practice four hours every day, and

Thea frowned again, still more fiercely, and said quickly, "That's a nice name, only maybe it's a littleold

fashioned." She was very sensitive about being thought a foreigner, and was proud of the fact that, in town,

her father always preached in English; very bookish English, at that, one might add.

Born in an old Scandinavian colony in Minnesota, Peter Kronborg had been sent to a small divinity school in

Indiana by the women of a Swedish evangelical mission, who were convinced of his gifts and who skimped

and begged and gave church suppers to get the long, lazy youth through the seminary. He could still speak

enough Swed ish to exhort and to bury the members of his country church out at Copper Hole, and he

wielded in his Moon stone pulpit a somewhat pompous English vocabulary he had learned out of books at

college. He always spoke of "the infant Saviour," "our Heavenly Father," etc. The poor man had no natural,

spontaneous human speech. If he had his sincere moments, they were perforce inarticu late. Probably a good

deal of his pretentiousness was due to the fact that he habitually expressed himself in a book learned

language, wholly remote from anything personal, native, or homely. Mrs. Kronborg spoke Swedish to her

own sisters and to her sisterinlaw Tillie, and colloquial English to her neighbors. Thea, who had a rather

sensitive ear, until she went to school never spoke at all, except in monosyllables, and her mother was

convinced that she was tonguetied. She was still inept in speech for a child so intelligent. Her ideas were

usually clear, but she seldom attempted to explain them, even at school, where she excelled in "written work"

"Your music professor stopped me on the street today and asked me how you were," said the doctor, rising.

"He'll be sick himself, trotting around in this slush with no overcoat or overshoes."

The doctor sighed. "I'm afraid he's worse than that. Is he always all right when you take your lessons? Never

Thea looked angry and spoke excitedly. "He knows a lot. More than anybody. I don't care if he does drink;

Mrs. Kronborg spoke up from the next room. "He's a good teacher, doctor. It's good for us he does drink.

He'd never be in a little place like this if he didn't have some weakness. These women that teach music

around here don't know nothing. I wouldn't have my child wasting time with them. If Professor Wunsch goes

away, Thea'll have nobody to take from. He's careful with his scholars; he don't use bad language. Mrs.

Kohler is always present when Thea takes her lesson. It's all right." Mrs. Kronborg spoke calmly and

"I'm glad to hear that, Mrs. Kronborg. I wish we could get the old man off his bottle and keep him tidy. Do

you suppose if I gave you an old overcoat you could get him to wear it?" The doctor went to the bedroom

"Why, yes, I guess he'd be glad of it. He'll take most anything from me. He won't buy clothes, but I guess he'd

wear 'em if he had 'em. I've never had any clothes to give him, having so many to make over for."

"I'll have Larry bring the coat around tonight. You aren't cross with me, Thea?" taking her hand.

Thea grinned warmly. "Not if you give Professor Wunsch a coatand things," she tapped the grapes sig

Being sick was all very well, but Thea knew from experience that starting back to school again was attended

by depressing difficulties. One Monday morning she got up early with Axel and Gunner, who shared her

wing room, and hurried into the back livingroom, between the diningroom and the kitchen. There, beside a

softcoal stove, the younger children of the family undressed at night and dressed in the morning. The older

daughter, Anna, and the two big boys slept upstairs, where the rooms were theoretically warmed by

stovepipes from below. The first (and the worst!) thing that confronted Thea was a suit of clean, prickly red

flannel, fresh from the wash. Usually the torment of breaking in a clean suit of flannel came on Sunday, but

yesterday, as she was staying in the house, she had begged off. Their winter underwear was a trial to all the

children, but it was bitterest to Thea because she happened to have the most sensitive skin. While she was

tugging it on, her Aunt Tillie brought in warm water from the boiler and filled the tin pitcher. Thea washed

her face, brushed and braided her hair, and got into her blue cash mere dress. Over this she buttoned a long

apron, with sleeves, which would not be removed until she put on her cloak to go to school. Gunner and

Axel, on the soap box behind the stove, had their usual quarrel about which should wear the tightest

stockings, but they exchanged reproaches in low tones, for they were wholesomely afraid of Mrs. Kronborg's

rawhide whip. She did not chastise her children often, but she did it thoroughly. Only a some what stern

system of discipline could have kept any degree of order and quiet in that overcrowded house.

Mrs. Kronborg's children were all trained to dress them selves at the earliest possible age, to make their own

beds, the boys as well as the girls,to take care of their clothes, to eat what was given them, and to keep

out of the way. Mrs. Kronborg would have made a good chess player; she had a head for moves and

Anna, the elder daughter, was her mother's lieutenant. All the children knew that they must obey Anna, who

was an obstinate contender for proprieties and not always fair minded. To see the young Kronborgs headed

for Sunday School was like watching a military drill. Mrs. Kronborg let her children's minds alone. She did

not pry into their thoughts or nag them. She respected them as individuals, and outside of the house they had

In the winter the children breakfasted in the kitchen; Gus and Charley and Anna first, while the younger chil

dren were dressing. Gus was nineteen and was a clerk in a drygoods store. Charley, eighteen months

younger, worked in a feed store. They left the house by the kitchen door at seven o'clock, and then Anna

helped her Aunt Tillie get the breakfast for the younger ones. Without the help of this sisterinlaw, Tillie

Kronborg, Mrs. Kronborg's life would have been a hard one. Mrs. Kronborg often reminded Anna that "no

Mr. Kronborg came of a poorer stock than his wife; from a lowly, ignorant family that had lived in a poor

part of Sweden. His greatgrandfather had gone to Norway to work as a farm laborer and had married a

Norwegian girl. This strain of Norwegian blood came out somewhere in each generation of the Kronborgs.

The intemperance of one of Peter Kronborg's uncles, and the religious mania of another, had been alike

charged to the Norwegian grandmother. Both Peter Kronborg and his sister Tillie were more like the

Norwegian root of the family than like the Swedish, and this same Norwegian strain was strong in Thea,

Tillie was a queer, addlepated thing, as flighty as a girl at thirtyfive, and overweeningly fond of gay

clothes which taste, as Mrs. Kronborg philosophically said, did nobody any harm. Tillie was always

cheerful, and her tongue was still for scarcely a minute during the day. She had been cruelly overworked on

her father's Minnesota farm when she was a young girl, and she had never been so happy as she was now; had

never before, as she said, had such social advantages. She thought her brother the most important man in

Moonstone. She never missed a church service, and, much to the embarrassment of the children, she always

"spoke a piece" at the SundaySchool concerts. She had a complete set of "Standard Recita tions," which

she conned on Sundays. This morning, when Thea and her two younger brothers sat down to breakfast, Tillie

was remonstrating with Gunner because he had not learned a recitation assigned to him for George

Washington Day at school. The unmemorized text lay heavily on Gunner's conscience as he attacked his

buckwheat cakes and sausage. He knew that Tillie was in the right, and that "when the day came he would be

"I don't care," he muttered, stirring his coffee; "they oughtn't to make boys speak. It's all right for girls. They

"No showing off about it. Boys ought to like to speak up for their country. And what was the use of your

"That was for SundaySchool. I'd rather wear my old one, anyhow. Why didn't they give the piece to Thea?"

Tillie was turning buckwheat cakes at the griddle. "Thea can play and sing, she don't need to speak. But

you've got to know how to do something, Gunner, that you have. What are you going to do when you git big

and want to git into society, if you can't do nothing? Every body'll say, `Can you sing? Can you play? Can

you speak? Then git right out of society.' An' that's what they'll say to you, Mr. Gunner."

Gunner and Alex grinned at Anna, who was preparing her mother's breakfast. They never made fun of Tillie,

but they understood well enough that there were subjects upon which her ideas were rather foolish. When

Tillie struck the shallows, Thea was usually prompt in turning the conversation.

Axel was a fat little boy of seven, with pretty, lazy blue eyes. "I don't care," he murmured, buttering his last

buckwheat cake without ambition; "too much trouble to copy 'em down. Jenny Smiley'll let me have hers."

The boys were to pull Thea to school on their sled, as the snow was deep. The three set off together. Anna

was now in the high school, and she no longer went with the family party, but walked to school with some of

And it was Summer, beautiful Summer!" Those were the closing words of Thea's favorite fairy tale, and she

thought of them as she ran out into the world one Saturday morning in May, her music book under her arm.

It was in the summer that one really lived. Then all the little overcrowded houses were opened wide, and the

wind blew through them with sweet, earthy smells of gardenplanting. The town looked as if it had just been

washed. People were out painting their fences. The cotton wood trees were aflicker with sticky, yellow

little leaves, and the feathery tamarisks were in pink bud. With the warm weather came freedom for

everybody. People were dug up, as it were. The very old people, whom one had not seen all winter, came out

and sunned themselves in the yard. The double windows were taken off the houses, the tormenting flannels in

which children had been encased all winter were put away in boxes, and the youngsters felt a pleasure in the

Thea had to walk more than a mile to reach the Kohlers' house, a very pleasant mile out of town toward the

glitter ing sand hills,yellow this morning, with lines of deep violet where the clefts and valleys were. She

followed the sidewalk to the depot at the south end of the town; then took the road east to the little group of

adobe houses where the Mexicans lived, then dropped into a deep ravine; a dry sand creek, across which the

railroad track ran on a trestle. Beyond that gulch, on a little rise of ground that faced the open sandy plain,

was the Kohlers' house, where Professor Wunsch lived. Fritz Kohler was the town tailor, one of the first

settlers. He had moved there, built a little house and made a garden, when Moonstone was first marked down

on the map. He had three sons, but they now worked on the railroad and were stationed in distant cities. One

Mrs. Kohler seldom crossed the ravine and went into the town except at Christmastime, when she had to

buy pres ents and Christmas cards to send to her old friends in Freeport, Illinois. As she did not go to

church, she did not possess such a thing as a hat. Year after year she wore the same red hood in winter and a

black sunbonnet in summer. She made her own dresses; the skirts came barely to her shoetops, and were

gathered as full as they could possibly be to the waistband. She preferred men's shoes, and usu ally wore the

castoffs of one of her sons. She had never learned much English, and her plants and shrubs were her

companions. She lived for her men and her garden. Beside that sand gulch, she had tried to reproduce a bit of

her own village in the Rhine Valley. She hid herself behind the growth she had fostered, lived under the

shade of what she had planted and watered and pruned. In the blaze of the open plain she was stupid and

blind like an owl. Shade, shade; that was what she was always planning and making. Behind the high

tamarisk hedge, her garden was a jungle of verdure in summer. Above the cherry trees and peach trees and

golden plums stood the windmill, with its tank on stilts, which kept all this verdure alive. Outside, the

sagebrush grew up to the very edge of the garden, and the sand was always drifting up to the tamarisks.

Every one in Moonstone was astonished when the Kohlers took the wandering musicteacher to live with

them. In seventeen years old Fritz had never had a crony, except the harnessmaker and Spanish Johnny.

This Wunsch came from God knew where,followed Spanish Johnny into town when that wanderer came

back from one of his tramps. Wunsch played in the dance orchestra, tuned pianos, and gave lessons. When

Mrs. Kohler rescued him, he was sleeping in a dirty, unfurnished room over one of the saloons, and he had

only two shirts in the world. Once he was under her roof, the old woman went at him as she did at her garden.

She sewed and washed and mended for him, and made him so clean and respectable that he was able to get a

large class of pupils and to rent a piano. As soon as he had money ahead, he sent to the Narrow Gauge

lodginghouse, in Denver, for a trunkful of music which had been held there for unpaid board. With tears in

his eyes the old manhe was not over fifty, but sadly bat teredtold Mrs. Kohler that he asked nothing

better of God than to end his days with her, and to be buried in the garden, under her linden trees. They were

not American basswood, but the European linden, which has honey colored blooms in summer, with a

fragrance that sur passes all trees and flowers and drives young people wild with joy.

Thea was reflecting as she walked along that had it not been for Professor Wunsch she might have lived on

for years in Moonstone without ever knowing the Kohlers, without ever seeing their garden or the inside of

their house. Besides the cuckoo clock,which was wonderful enough, and which Mrs. Kohler said she kept

for "company when she was lonesome,"the Kohlers had in their house the most wonderful thing Thea had

Professor Wunsch went to the houses of his other pupils to give them their lessons, but one morning he told

Mrs. Kronborg that Thea had talent, and that if she came to him he could teach her in his slippers, and that

would be better. Mrs. Kronborg was a strange woman. That word "talent," which no one else in Moonstone,

not even Dr. Archie, would have understood, she comprehended perfectly. To any other woman there, it

would have meant that a child must have her hair curled every day and must play in public. Mrs. Kronborg

knew it meant that Thea must practice four hours a day. A child with talent must be kept at the piano, just as a

child with measles must be kept under the blankets. Mrs. Kronborg and her three sisters had all studied piano,

and all sang well, but none of them had talent. Their father had played the oboe in an orchestra in Sweden,

before he came to America to better his fortunes. He had even known Jenny Lind. A child with talent had to

be kept at the piano; so twice a week in sum mer and once a week in winter Thea went over the gulch to the

Kohlers', though the Ladies' Aid Society thought it was not proper for their preacher's daughter to go "where

there was so much drinking." Not that the Kohler sons ever so much as looked at a glass of beer. They were

ashamed of their old folks and got out into the world as fast as possible; had their clothes made by a Denver

tailor and their necks shaved up under their hair and forgot the past. Old Fritz and Wunsch, however,

indulged in a friendly bottle pretty often. The two men were like com rades; perhaps the bond between them

was the glass wherein lost hopes are found; perhaps it was common memories of another country; perhaps it

was the grapevine in the gar denknotty, fibrous shrub, full of homesickness and senti ment, which the

As Thea approached the house she peeped between the pink sprays of the tamarisk hedge and saw the

Professor and Mrs. Kohler in the garden, spading and raking. The garden looked like a reliefmap now, and

gave no indication of what it would be in August; such a jungle! Pole beans and potatoes and corn and leeks

and kale and red cabbage there would even be vegetables for which there is no American name. Mrs.

Kohler was always getting by mail packages of seeds from Freeport and from the old country. Then the

flowers! There were big sunflowers for the canary bird, tiger lilies and phlox and zinnias and lady'sslippers

and portulaca and hollyhocks,giant hollyhocks. Beside the fruit trees there was a great umbrellashaped

catalpa, and a balmofGilead, two lindens, and even a ginka,a rigid, pointed tree with leaves shaped like

This morning Thea saw to her delight that the two ole ander trees, one white and one red, had been brought

up from their winter quarters in the cellar. There is hardly a German family in the most arid parts of Utah,

New Mex ico, Arizona, but has its oleander trees. However loutish the Americanborn sons of the family

may be, there was never one who refused to give his muscle to the backbreak ing task of getting those

tubbed trees down into the cellar in the fall and up into the sunlight in the spring. They may strive to avert the

When Thea entered the gate, her professor leaned his spade against the white post that supported the turreted

dovehouse, and wiped his face with his shirtsleeve; some way he never managed to have a handkerchief

about him. Wunsch was short and stocky, with something rough and bearlike about his shoulders. His face

was a dark, bricky red, deeply creased rather than wrinkled, and the skin was like loose leather over his neck

bandhe wore a brass collar button but no collar. His hair was cropped close; irongray bristles on a

bulletlike head. His eyes were always suffused and bloodshot. He had a coarse, scornful mouth, and

irregular, yellow teeth, much worn at the edges. His hands were square and red, seldom clean, but always

"MORGEN," he greeted his pupil in a businesslike way, put on a black alpaca coat, and conducted her at

once to the piano in Mrs. Kohler's sittingroom. He twirled the stool to the proper height, pointed to it, and

"The scale of B flat major," he directed, and then fell into an attitude of deep attention. Without a word his

To Mrs. Kohler, in the garden, came the cheerful sound of effort, of vigorous striving. Unconsciously she

wielded her rake more lightly. Occasionally she heard the teacher's voice. "Scale of E minor. . . . WEITER,

WEITER! . . . IMMER I hear the thumb, like a lame foot. WEITER . . . WEITER, once; . . . SCHON! The

The pupil did not open her mouth until they began the second movement of the Clementi sonata, when she

remon strated in low tones about the way he had marked the fingering of a passage.

"It makes no matter what you think," replied her teacher coldly. "There is only one right way. The thumb

there. EIN, ZWEI, DREI, VIER," etc. Then for an hour there was no further interruption.

At the end of the lesson Thea turned on her stool and leaned her arm on the keyboard. They usually had a

Herr Wunsch grinned. "How soon is it you are free from school? Then we make ahead faster, eh?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "It makes no matter. If you want him, you play him out of lesson hours."

"All right." Thea fumbled in her pocket and brought out a crumpled slip of paper. "What does this mean,

Wunsch blinked at the line penciled on the paper. "Wherefrom you get this?" he asked gruffly.

"Out of a book Dr. Archie gave me to read. It's all Eng lish but that. Did you ever see it before?" she asked,

"Yes. A long time ago," he muttered, scowling. "Ovidius!" He took a stub of lead pencil from his vest pocket,

"LENTE CURRITE, LENTE CURRITE, NOCTIS EQUI," he wrote in a clear, elegant Gothic hand,

"GO SLOWLY, GO SLOWLY, YE STEEDS OF THE NIGHT." He put the pencil back in his pocket and

continued to stare at the Latin. It recalled the poem, which he had read as a student, and thought very fine.

There were treasures of memory which no lodginghouse keeper could attach. One carried things about in

one's head, long after one's linen could be smuggled out in a tuningbag. He handed the paper back to Thea.

Mrs. Kohler stuck her head in at the door, and Thea slid off the stool. "Come in, Mrs. Kohler," she called,

The old woman laughed, pulled off her big gardening gloves, and pushed Thea to the lounge before the

object of her delight. The "piecepicture," which hung on the wall and nearly covered one whole end of the

room, was the handiwork of Fritz Kohler. He had learned his trade under an oldfashioned tailor in

Magdeburg who required from each of his apprentices a thesis: that is, before they left his shop, each

apprentice had to copy in cloth some well known German painting, stitching bits of colored stuff together

on a linen background; a kind of mosaic. The pupil was allowed to select his subject, and Fritz Kohler had

chosen a popular painting of Napoleon's retreat from Moscow. The gloomy Emperor and his staff were

repre sented as crossing a stone bridge, and behind them was the blazing city, the walls and fortresses done

in gray cloth with orange tongues of flame darting about the domes and minarets. Napoleon rode his white

horse; Murat, in Ori ental dress, a bay charger. Thea was never tired of exam ining this work, of hearing

how long it had taken Fritz to make it, how much it had been admired, and what narrow escapes it had had

from moths and fire. Silk, Mrs. Kohler explained, would have been much easier to manage than woolen cloth,

in which it was often hard to get the right shades. The reins of the horses, the wheels of the spurs, the

brooding eyebrows of the Emperor, Murat's fierce mustaches, the great shakos of the Guard, were all worked

out with the minutest fidelity. Thea's admiration for this picture had endeared her to Mrs. Kohler. It was now

many years since she used to point out its wonders to her own little boys. As Mrs. Kohler did not go to

church, she never heard any singing, except the songs that floated over from Mexican Town, and Thea often

sang for her after the lesson was over. This morning Wunsch pointed to the piano.

Thea obediently sat down on the stool again and began, "COME, YE DISCONSOLATE." Wunsch listened

thoughtfully, his hands on his knees. Such a beautiful child's voice! Old Mrs. Kohler's face relaxed in a smile

of happiness; she half closed her eyes. A big fly was darting in and out of the window; the sunlight made a

golden pool on the rag carpet and bathed the faded cretonne pillows on the lounge, under the piecepicture.

"That is a good thing to remember," Wunsch shook him self. "You believe that?" looking quizzically at

She became confused and pecked nervously at a black key with her middle finger. "I don't know. I guess so,"

Her teacher rose abruptly. "Remember, for next time, thirds. You ought to get up earlier."

That night the air was so warm that Fritz and Herr Wunsch had their aftersupper pipe in the grape arbor,

smoking in silence while the sound of fiddles and guitars came across the ravine from Mexican Town. Long

after Fritz and his old Paulina had gone to bed, Wunsch sat motionless in the arbor, looking up through the

That line awoke many memories. He was thinking of youth; of his own, so long gone by, and of his pupil's,

just beginning. He would even have cherished hopes for her, except that he had become superstitious. He

believed that whatever he hoped for was destined not to be; that his affection brought illfortune, especially

to the young; that if he held anything in his thoughts, he harmed it. He had taught in music schools in St.

Louis and Kansas City, where the shallowness and complacency of the young misses had maddened him. He

had encountered bad manners and bad faith, had been the victim of sharpers of all kinds, was dogged by bad

luck. He had played in orchestras that were never paid and wandering opera troupes which disbanded

penniless. And there was always the old enemy, more relentless than the others. It was long since he had

wished anything or desired anything beyond the necessities of the body. Now that he was tempted to hope for

It was his pupil's power of application, her rugged will, that interested him. He had lived for so long among

people whose sole ambition was to get something for nothing that he had learned not to look for seriousness

in anything. Now that he by chance encountered it, it recalled standards, am bitions, a society long forgot.

What was it she reminded him of? A yellow flower, full of sunlight, perhaps. No; a thin glass full of

sweetsmelling, sparkling Moselle wine. He seemed to see such a glass before him in the arbor, to watch the

bubbles rising and breaking, like the silent discharge of energy in the nerves and brain, the rapid florescence

in young bloodWunsch felt ashamed and dragged his slip pers along the path to the kitchen, his eyes on

The children in the primary grades were sometimes required to make relief maps of Moonstone in sand. Had

they used colored sands, as the Navajo medicine men do in their sand mosaics, they could easily have

indicated the social classifications of Moonstone, since these con formed to certain topographical

The main business street ran, of course, through the center of the town. To the west of this street lived all the

people who were, as Tillie Kronborg said, "in society." Sylvester Street, the third parallel with Main Street on

the west, was the longest in town, and the best dwellings were built along it. Far out at the north end, nearly a

mile from the courthouse and its cottonwood grove, was Dr. Archie's house, its big yard and garden

surrounded by a white paling fence. The Methodist Church was in the center of the town, facing the

courthouse square. The Kronborgs lived half a mile south of the church, on the long street that stretched out

like an arm to the depot settlement. This was the first street west of Main, and was built up only on one side.

The preacher's house faced the backs of the brick and frame store buildings and a draw full of sunflowers and

scraps of old iron. The sidewalk which ran in front of the Kronborgs' house was the one continuous sidewalk

to the depot, and all the train men and roundhouse em ployees passed the front gate every time they came

up town. Thea and Mrs. Kronborg had many friends among the railroad men, who often paused to chat

In the part of Moonstone that lay east of Main Street, toward the deep ravine which, farther south, wound by

Mexican Town, lived all the humbler citizens, the people who voted but did not run for office. The houses

were little storyandahalf cottages, with none of the fussy archi tectural efforts that marked those on

Sylvester Street. They nestled modestly behind their cottonwoods and Vir ginia creeper; their occupants had

no social pretensions to keep up. There were no halfglass front doors with door bells, or formidable parlors

behind closed shutters. Here the old women washed in the back yard, and the men sat in the front doorway

and smoked their pipes. The people on Sylvester Street scarcely knew that this part of the town existed. Thea

liked to take Thor and her express wagon and explore these quiet, shady streets, where the people never tried

to have lawns or to grow elms and pine trees, but let the native timber have its way and spread in luxuriance.

She had many friends there, old women who gave her a yellow rose or a spray of trumpet vine and appeased

Thor with a cooky or a doughnut. They called Thea "that preacher's girl," but the demonstrative was

misplaced, for when they spoke of Mr. Kronborg they called him "the Methodist preacher."

Dr. Archie was very proud of his yard and garden, which he worked himself. He was the only man in

Moonstone who was successful at growing rambler roses, and his strawberries were famous. One morning

when Thea was downtown on an errand, the doctor stopped her, took her hand and went over her with a

"You haven't been up to my place to get any straw berries yet, Thea. They're at their best just now. Mrs.

Archie doesn't know what to do with them all. Come up this afternoon. Just tell Mrs. Archie I sent you. Bring

When she got home Thea told her mother that she didn't want to go, because she didn't like Mrs. Archie.

"She is certainly one queer woman," Mrs. Kronborg assented, "but he's asked you so often, I guess you'll

After dinner Thea took a basket, put Thor in his baby buggy, and set out for Dr. Archie's house at the other

end of town. As soon as she came within sight of the house, she slackened her pace. She approached it very

slowly, stopping often to pick dandelions and sandpeas for Thor to crush up in his fist.

It was his wife's custom, as soon as Dr. Archie left the house in the morning, to shut all the doors and

windows to keep the dust out, and to pull down the shades to keep the sun from fading the carpets. She

thought, too, that neighbors were less likely to drop in if the house was closed up. She was one of those

people who are stingy without motive or reason, even when they can gain nothing by it. She must have

known that skimping the doctor in heat and food made him more extravagant than he would have been had

she made him comfortable. He never came home for lunch, because she gave him such miserable scraps and

shreds of food. No matter how much milk he bought, he could never get thick cream for his strawberries.

Even when he watched his wife lift it from the milk in smooth, ivorycolored blankets, she managed, by

some sleightof hand, to dilute it before it got to the breakfast table. The butcher's favorite joke was about

the kind of meat he sold Mrs. Archie. She felt no interest in food herself, and she hated to prepare it. She

liked nothing better than to have Dr. Archie go to Denver for a few dayshe often went chiefly because he

was hungryand to be left alone to eat canned salmon and to keep the house shut up from morning until

Mrs. Archie would not have a servant because, she said, "they ate too much and broke too much"; she even

said they knew too much. She used what mind she had in devising shifts to minimize her housework. She

used to tell her neighbors that if there were no men, there would be no housework. When Mrs. Archie was

first married, she had been always in a panic for fear she would have children. Now that her apprehensions on

that score had grown paler, she was almost as much afraid of having dust in the house as she had once been

of having children in it. If dust did not get in, it did not have to be got out, she said. She would take any

amount of trouble to avoid trouble. Why, nobody knew. Certainly her husband had never been able to make

her out. Such little, mean natures are among the darkest and most baffling of created things. There is no law

by which they can be explained. The or dinary incentives of pain and pleasure do not account for their

behavior. They live like insects, absorbed in petty activities that seem to have nothing to do with any genial

Mrs. Archie, as Mrs. Kronborg said, "liked to gad." She liked to have her house clean, empty, dark, locked,

and to be out of itanywhere. A church social, a prayer meeting, a tencent show; she seemed to have no

prefer ence. When there was nowhere else to go, she used to sit for hours in Mrs. Smiley's millinery and

notion store, lis tening to the talk of the women who came in, watching them while they tried on hats,

blinking at them from her corner with her sharp, restless little eyes. She never talked much herself, but she

knew all the gossip of the town and she had a sharp ear for racy anecdotes"traveling men's stories," they

used to be called in Moonstone. Her clicking laugh sounded like a typewriting machine in action, and, for

Mrs. Archie had been Mrs. Archie for only six years, and when she was Belle White she was one of the

"pretty" girls in Lansing, Michigan. She had then a train of suitors. She could truly remind Archie that "the

boys hung around her." They did. They thought her very spirited and were always saying, "Oh, that Belle

White, she's a case!" She used to play heavy practical jokes which the young men thought very clever. Archie

was considered the most promising young man in "the young crowd," so Belle selected him. She let him see,

made him fully aware, that she had selected him, and Archie was the sort of boy who could not withstand

such enlightenment. Belle's family were sorry for him. On his wedding day her sisters looked at the big,

handsome boyhe was twentyfouras he walked down the aisle with his bride, and then they looked at

each other. His besotted confidence, his sober, radiant face, his gentle, protecting arm, made them

uncomfort able. Well, they were glad that he was going West at once, to fulfill his doom where they would

not be onlookers. Any how, they consoled themselves, they had got Belle off their hands.

More than that, Belle seemed to have got herself off her hands. Her reputed prettiness must have been

entirely the result of determination, of a fierce little ambition. Once she had married, fastened herself on some

one, come to port,it vanished like the ornamental plumage which drops away from some birds after the

mating season. The one aggressive action of her life was over. She began to shrink in face and stature. Of her

harumscarum spirit there was nothing left but the little screech. Within a few years she looked as small and

Thor's chariot crept along. Thea approached the house unwillingly. She didn't care about the strawberries,

any how. She had come only because she did not want to hurt Dr. Archie's feelings. She not only disliked

Mrs. Archie, she was a little afraid of her. While Thea was getting the heavy babybuggy through the iron

gate she heard some one call, "Wait a minute!" and Mrs. Archie came running around the house from the

back door, her apron over her head. She came to help with the buggy, because she was afraid the wheels

might scratch the paint off the gate posts. She was a skinny little woman with a great pile of frizzy light hair

"Dr. Archie told me to come up and pick some straw berries," Thea muttered, wishing she had stayed at

Mrs. Archie led the way to the back door, squinting and shading her eyes with her hand. "Wait a minute," she

She went into her kitchen and Thea sat down on the porch step. When Mrs. Archie reappeared she carried in

her hand a little wooden butterbasket trimmed with fringed tissue paper, which she must have brought home

from some church supper. "You'll have to have something to put them in," she said, ignoring the yawning

willow basket which stood empty on Thor's feet. "You can have this, and you needn't mind about returning it.

Mrs. Archie went back into the house and Thea leaned over in the sand and picked a few strawberries. As

soon as she was sure that she was not going to cry, she tossed the little basket into the big one and ran Thor's

buggy along the gravel walk and out of the gate as fast as she could push it. She was angry, and she was

ashamed for Dr. Archie. She could not help thinking how uncomfortable he would be if he ever found out

about it. Little things like that were the ones that cut him most. She slunk home by the back way, and again

Mrs. Kronborg was frying doughnuts for her husband's supper. She laughed as she dropped a new lot into the

hot grease. "It's wonderful, the way some people are made," she declared. "But I wouldn't let that upset me if

I was you. Think what it would be to live with it all the time. You look in the black pocketbook inside my

handbag and take a dime and go downtown and get an icecream soda. That'll make you feel better. Thor can

have a little of the icecream if you feed it to him with a spoon. He likes it, don't you, son?" She stooped to

wipe his chin. Thor was only six months old and inarticulate, but it was quite true that he liked icecream.

Seen from a balloon, Moonstone would have looked like a Noah's ark town set out in the sand and lightly

shaded by graygreen tamarisks and cottonwoods. A few people were trying to make soft maples grow in

their turfed lawns, but the fashion of planting incongruous trees from the North Atlantic States had not

become gen eral then, and the frail, brightly painted desert town was shaded by the lightreflecting,

windloving trees of the desert, whose roots are always seeking water and whose leaves are always talking

about it, making the sound of rain. The long porous roots of the cottonwood are irre pressible. They break

The long street which connected Moonstone with the depot settlement traversed in its course a considerable

stretch of rough open country, staked out in lots but not built up at all, a weedy hiatus between the town and

the railroad. When you set out along this street to go to the station, you noticed that the houses became

smaller and farther apart, until they ceased altogether, and the board sidewalk continued its uneven course

through sunflower patches, until you reached the solitary, new brick Catholic Church. The church stood there

because the land was given to the parish by the man who owned the adjoining waste lots, in the hope of

making them more salable "Farrier's Addition," this patch of prairie was called in the clerk's office. An

eighth of a mile beyond the church was a washout, a deep sandgully, where the board sidewalk became a

bridge for perhaps fifty feet. Just beyond the gully was old Uncle Billy Beemer's grove,twelve town lots

set out in fine, wellgrown cottonwood trees, delightful to look upon, or to listen to, as they swayed and

rippled in the wind. Uncle Billy had been one of the most worthless old drunkards who ever sat on a store

box and told filthy stories. One night he played hideandseek with a switch engine and got his sodden

brains knocked out. But his grove, the one creditable thing he had ever done in his life, rustled on. Beyond

this grove the houses of the depot settlement began, and the naked board walk, that had run in out of the

One afternoon, late in the summer, Dr. Howard Archie was fighting his way back to town along this walk

through a blinding sandstorm, a silk handkerchief tied over his mouth. He had been to see a sick woman

down in the depot settlement, and he was walking because his ponies had been out for a hard drive that

As he passed the Catholic Church he came upon Thea and Thor. Thea was sitting in a child's express wagon,

her feet out behind, kicking the wagon along and steering by the tongue. Thor was on her lap and she held

him with one arm. He had grown to be a big cub of a baby, with a con stitutional grievance, and he had to

be continually amused. Thea took him philosophically, and tugged and pulled him about, getting as much fun

as she could under her encumbrance. Her hair was blowing about her face, and her eyes were squinting so

intently at the uneven board sidewalk in front of her that she did not see the doctor until he spoke to her.

The wagon stopped. Thea released the tongue, wiped her hot, sandy face, and pushed back her hair. "Oh, no, I

won't! I never ran off but once, and then he didn't get anything but a bump. He likes this better than a baby

"Of course. We take long trips; wherever there is a side walk. It's no good on the road."

"Looks to me like working pretty hard for your fun. Are you going to be busy tonight? Want to make a call

with me? Spanish Johnny's come home again, all used up. His wife sent me word this morning, and I said I'd

"Last night, on Number Six. Paid his fare, they tell me. Too sick to beat it. There'll come a time when that

boy won't get back, I'm afraid. Come around to my office about eight o'clock,and you needn't bring that!"

Thor seemed to understand that he had been insulted, for he scowled and began to kick the side of the wagon,

shouting, "Gogo, gogo!" Thea leaned forward and grabbed the wagon tongue. Dr. Archie stepped in front

of her and blocked the way. "Why don't you make him wait? What do you let him boss you like that for?"

"If he gets mad he throws himself, and then I can't do anything with him. When he's mad he's lots stronger

than me, aren't you, Thor?" Thea spoke with pride, and the idol was appeased. He grunted approvingly as his

sister began to kick rapidly behind her, and the wagon rattled off and soon disappeared in the flying currents

That evening Dr. Archie was seated in his office, his desk chair tilted back, reading by the light of a hot

coaloil lamp. All the windows were open, but the night was breathless after the sandstorm, and his hair was

moist where it hung over his forehead. He was deeply engrossed in his book and sometimes smiled

thoughtfully as he read. When Thea Kronborg entered quietly and slipped into a seat, he nodded, finished his

paragraph, inserted a bookmark, and rose to put the book back into the case. It was one out of the long row of

"Nearly every time I come in, when you're alone, you're reading one of those books," Thea remarked

The doctor dropped back into his swivel chair, the mot tled volume still in his hand. "They aren't exactly

"Yes, and no. They're a history of a live city, not a dead one. A Frenchman undertook to write about a whole

cityful of people, all the kinds he knew. And he got them nearly all in, I guess. Yes, it's very interesting.

Thea leaned forward and made out the title on the back, "A Distinguished Provincial in Paris."

"Perhaps not, but it is." The doctor scrutinized her broad face, low enough to be in the direct light from under

the green lamp shade. "Yes," he went on with some sat isfaction, "I think you'll like them some day. You're

always curious about people, and I expect this man knew more about people than anybody that ever lived."

"Oh, no, they're not. The people who go through in the diningcar aren't like us."

Thea shook her head. "No, it's something else. I don't know." Her eyes shifted under the doctor's searching

gaze and she glanced up at the row of books. "How soon will I be old enough to read them?"

"Soon enough, soon enough, little girl." The doctor patted her hand and looked at her index finger. "The nail's

coming all right, isn't it? But I think that man makes you practice too much. You have it on your mind all the

time." He had noticed that when she talked to him she was always opening and shutting her hands. "It makes

"No, he don't," Thea replied stubbornly, watching Dr. Archie return the book to its niche.

He took up a black leather case, put on his hat, and they went down the dark stairs into the street. The

summer moon hung full in the sky. For the time being, it was the great fact in the world. Beyond the edge of

the town the plain was so white that every clump of sage stood out dis tinct from the sand, and the dunes

looked like a shining lake. The doctor took off his straw hat and carried it in his hand as they walked toward

North of Pueblo, Mexican settlements were rare in Colorado then. This one had come about accidentally.

Spanish Johnny was the first Mexican who came to Moon stone. He was a painter and decorator, and had

been working in Trinidad, when Ray Kennedy told him there was a "boom" on in Moonstone, and a good

many new buildings were going up. A year after Johnny settled in Moonstone, his cousin, Famos Serrenos,

came to work in the brickyard; then Serrenos' cousins came to help him. During the strike, the master

mechanic put a gang of Mexicans to work in the roundhouse. The Mexicans had arrived so quietly, with their

blankets and musical instru ments, that before Moonstone was awake to the fact, there was a Mexican

As Thea and the doctor approached the 'dobe houses, they heard a guitar, and a rich barytone voicethat of

Famos Serrenossinging "La Golandrina." All the Mexican houses had neat little yards, with tamarisk

hedges and flowers, and walks bordered with shells or white washed stones. Johnny's house was dark. His

wife, Mrs. Tellamantez, was sitting on the doorstep, combing her long, blueblack hair. (Mexican women are

like the Spar tans; when they are in trouble, in love, under stress of any kind, they comb and comb their

hair.) She rose without embarrassment or apology, comb in hand, and greeted the doctor.

"Goodevening; will you go in?" she asked in a low, musical voice. "He is in the back room. I will make a

light." She followed them indoors, lit a candle and handed it to the doctor, pointing toward the bedroom.

Dr. Archie and Thea went into the bedroom, which was dark and quiet. There was a bed in the corner, and a

man was lying on the clean sheets. On the table beside him was a glass pitcher, halffull of water. Spanish

Johnny looked younger than his wife, and when he was in health he was very handsome: slender,

goldcolored, with wavy black hair, a round, smooth throat, white teeth, and burning black eyes. His profile

was strong and severe, like an Indian's. What was termed his "wildness" showed itself only in his feverish

eyes and in the color that burned on his tawny cheeks. That night he was a coppery green, and his eyes were

like black holes. He opened them when the doc tor held the candle before his face.

"MI TESTA!" he muttered, "MI TESTA, doctor. "LA FIEBRE!" Seeing the doctor's companion at the foot of

Dr. Archie stuck a thermometer into his mouth. "Now, Thea, you can run outside and wait for me."

Thea slipped noiselessly through the dark house and joined Mrs. Tellamantez. The somber Mexican woman

did not seem inclined to talk, but her nod was friendly. Thea sat down on the warm sand, her back to the

moon, facing Mrs. Tellamantez on her doorstep, and began to count the moonflowers on the vine that ran

over the house. Mrs. Tellamantez was always considered a very homely woman. Her face was of a strongly

marked type not sym pathetic to Americans. Such long, oval faces, with a full chin, a large, mobile mouth, a

high nose, are not uncom mon in Spain. Mrs. Tellamantez could not write her name, and could read but

little. Her strong nature lived upon itself. She was chiefly known in Moonstone for her forbear ance with her

Nobody knew exactly what was the matter with Johnny, and everybody liked him. His popularity would have

been unusual for a white man, for a Mexican it was unprece dented. His talents were his undoing. He had a

high, uncertain tenor voice, and he played the mandolin with exceptional skill. Periodically he went crazy.

There was no other way to explain his behavior. He was a clever workman, and, when he worked, as regular

and faithful as a burro. Then some night he would fall in with a crowd at the saloon and begin to sing. He

would go on until he had no voice left, until he wheezed and rasped. Then he would play his mandolin

furiously, and drink until his eyes sank back into his head. At last, when he was put out of the saloon at

closing time, and could get nobody to listen to him, he would run awayalong the railroad track, straight

across the desert. He always managed to get aboard a freight somewhere. Once beyond Denver, he played his

way southward from saloon to saloon until he got across the border. He never wrote to his wife; but she

would soon begin to get newspapers from La Junta, Albuquerque, Chihuahua, with marked paragraphs an

nouncing that Juan Tellamantez and his wonderful man dolin could be heard at the Jack Rabbit Grill, or the

Pearl of Cadiz Saloon. Mrs. Tellamantez waited and wept and combed her hair. When he was completely

wrung out and burned up,all but destroyed,her Juan always came back to her to be taken care of,once

with an ugly knife wound in the neck, once with a finger missing from his right hand,but he played just as

Public sentiment was lenient toward Johnny, but every body was disgusted with Mrs. Tellamantez for

putting up with him. She ought to discipline him, people said; she ought to leave him; she had no

selfrespect. In short, Mrs. Tellamantez got all the blame. Even Thea thought she was much too humble.

Tonight, as she sat with her back to the moon, looking at the moonflowers and Mrs. Tella mantez's somber

face, she was thinking that there is noth ing so sad in the world as that kind of patience and resigna tion. It

was much worse than Johnny's craziness. She even wondered whether it did not help to make Johnny crazy.

People had no right to be so passive and resigned. She would like to roll over and over in the sand and

The Mexican woman rose and stood respectful and ex pectant. The doctor held his hat in his hand and

"Same old thing, Mrs. Tellamantez. He's no worse than he's been before. I've left some medicine. Don't give

him anything but toast water until I see him again. You're a good nurse; you'll get him out." Dr. Archie

smiled en couragingly. He glanced about the little garden and wrinkled his brows. "I can't see what makes

him behave so. He's killing himself, and he's not a rowdy sort of fel low. Can't you tie him up someway?

Mrs. Tellamantez put her hand to her forehead. "The saloon, doctor, the excitement; that is what makes him.

The doctor shook his head. "Maybe. He's too much for my calculations. I don't see what he gets out of it."

"He is always fooled,"the Mexican woman spoke rapidly and tremulously, her long under lip quivering.

"He is good at heart, but he has no head. He fools himself. You do not understand in this country, you are

progressive. But he has no judgment, and he is fooled." She stooped quickly, took up one of the white

conchshells that bordered the walk, and, with an apologetic inclination of her head, held it to Dr. Archie's

ear. "Listen, doctor. You hear something in there? You hear the sea; and yet the sea is very far from here.

You have judgment, and you know that. But he is fooled. To him, it is the sea itself. A little thing is big to

him." She bent and placed the shell in the white row, with its fellows. Thea took it up softly and pressed it to

her own ear. The sound in it startled her; it was like something calling one. So that was why Johnny ran

Thea caught Dr. Archie's hand and squeezed it hard as she skipped along beside him back toward Moonstone.

She went home, and the doctor went back to his lamp and his book. He never left his office until after

midnight. If he did not play whist or pool in the evening, he read. It had become a habit with him to lose

Thea's twelfth birthday had passed a few weeks before her memorable call upon Mrs. Tellamantez. There was

a worthy man in Moonstone who was already planning to marry Thea as soon as she should be old enough.

His name was Ray Kennedy, his age was thirty, and he was conductor on a freight train, his run being from

Moonstone to Denver. Ray was a big fellow, with a square, open American face, a rock chin, and features

that one would never happen to remember. He was an aggressive idealist, a freethinker, and, like most

railroad men, deeply senti mental. Thea liked him for reasons that had to do with the adventurous life he had

led in Mexico and the South west, rather than for anything very personal. She liked him, too, because he

was the only one of her friends who ever took her to the sand hills. The sand hills were a con stant

tantalization; she loved them better than anything near Moonstone, and yet she could so seldom get to them.

The first dunes were accessible enough; they were only a few miles beyond the Kohlers', and she could run

out there any day when she could do her practicing in the morning and get Thor off her hands for an

afternoon. But the real hillsthe Turquoise Hills, the Mexicans called them were ten good miles away,

and one reached them by a heavy, sandy road. Dr. Archie sometimes took Thea on his long drives, but as

nobody lived in the sand hills, he never had calls to make in that direction. Ray Kennedy was her only hope

This summer Thea had not been to the hills once, though Ray had planned several Sunday expeditions. Once

Thor was sick, and once the organist in her father's church was away and Thea had to play the organ for the

three Sunday services. But on the first Sunday in September, Ray drove up to the Kronborgs' front gate at

nine o'clock in the morn ing and the party actually set off. Gunner and Axel went with Thea, and Ray had

asked Spanish Johnny to come and to bring Mrs. Tellamantez and his mandolin. Ray was artlessly fond of

music, especially of Mexican music. He and Mrs. Tellamantez had got up the lunch between them, and they

When they left Mexican Town, Thea was on the front seat with Ray and Johnny, and Gunner and Axel sat

be hind with Mrs. Tellamantez. They objected to this, of course, but there were some things about which

Thea would have her own way. "As stubborn as a Finn," Mrs. Kron borg sometimes said of her, quoting an

old Swedish saying. When they passed the Kohlers', old Fritz and Wunsch were cutting grapes at the arbor.

Thea gave them a busi nesslike nod. Wunsch came to the gate and looked after them. He divined Ray

Kennedy's hopes, and he dis trusted every expedition that led away from the piano. Unconsciously he made

As Ray Kennedy's party followed the faint road across the sagebrush, they heard behind them the sound of

church bells, which gave them a sense of escape and boundless freedom. Every rabbit that shot across the

path, every sage hen that flew up by the trail, was like a runaway thought, a message that one sent into the

desert. As they went farther, the illusion of the mirage became more in stead of less convincing; a shallow

silver lake that spread for many miles, a little misty in the sunlight. Here and there one saw reflected the

image of a heifer, turned loose to live upon the sparse sandgrass. They were magnified to a preposterous

height and looked like mammoths, pre historic beasts standing solitary in the waters that for many

thousands of years actually washed over that desert; the mirage itself may be the ghost of that

longvanished sea. Beyond the phantom lake lay the line of manycolored hills; rich, sunbaked yellow,

After the first five miles the road grew heavier. The horses had to slow down to a walk and the wheels sank

deep into the sand, which now lay in long ridges, like waves, where the last high wind had drifted it. Two

hours brought the party to Pedro's Cup, named for a Mexican desperado who had once held the sheriff at bay

there. The Cup was a great amphitheater, cut out in the hills, its floor smooth and packed hard, dotted with

On either side of the Cup the yellow hills ran north and south, with winding ravines between them, full of soft

sand which drained down from the crumbling banks. On the surface of this fluid sand, one could find bits of

brilliant stone, crystals and agates and onyx, and petrified wood as red as blood. Dried toads and lizards were

to be found there, too. Birds, decomposing more rapidly, left only feathered skeletons.

After a little reconnoitering, Mrs. Tellamantez declared that it was time for lunch, and Ray took his hatchet

and began to cut greasewood, which burns fiercely in its green state. The little boys dragged the bushes to the

spot that Mrs. Tellamantez had chosen for her fire. Mexican women like to cook out of doors.

After lunch Thea sent Gunner and Axel to hunt for agates. "If you see a rattlesnake, run. Don't try to kill it,"

Gunner hesitated. "If Ray would let me take the hatchet, I could kill one all right."

"Yes," her husband replied, translating, "they say in Mexico, kill a snake but never hurt his feelings. Down in

the hot country, MUCHACHA," turning to Thea, "people keep a pet snake in the house to kill rats and mice.

They call him the house snake. They keep a little mat for him by the fire, and at night he curl up there and sit

Gunner sniffed with disgust. "Well, I think that's a dirty Mexican way to keep house; so there!"

Johnny shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps," he muttered. A Mexican learns to dive below insults or soar above

By this time the south wall of the amphitheater cast a narrow shelf of shadow, and the party withdrew to this

refuge. Ray and Johnny began to talk about the Grand Canyon and Death Valley, two places much shrouded

in mystery in those days, and Thea listened intently. Mrs. Tellamantez took out her drawnwork and pinned

it to her knee. Ray could talk well about the large part of the conti nent over which he had been knocked

"You been all over, pretty near. Like a Spanish boy," he commented respectfully.

Ray, who had taken off his coat, whetted his pocket knife thoughtfully on the sole of his shoe. "I began to

browse around early. I had a mind to see something of this world, and I ran away from home before I was

"Couldn't make it go with my old man, and didn't take to farming. There were plenty of boys at home. I

Thea wriggled down in the hot sand and rested her chin on her arm. "Tell Johnny about the melons, Ray,

Ray's solid, sunburned cheeks grew a shade redder, and he looked reproachfully at Thea. "You're stuck on

that story, kid. You like to get the laugh on me, don't you? That was the finishing split I had with my old

man, John. He had a claim along the creek, not far from Denver, and raised a little garden stuff for market.

One day he had a load of melons and he decided to take 'em to town and sell 'em along the street, and he

made me go along and drive for him. Denver wasn't the queen city it is now, by any means, but it seemed a

terrible big place to me; and when we got there, if he didn't make me drive right up Capitol Hill! Pap got out

and stopped at folkses houses to ask if they didn't want to buy any melons, and I was to drive along slow. The

farther I went the madder I got, but I was trying to look unconscious, when the endgate came loose and one

of the melons fell out and squashed. Just then a swell girl, all dressed up, comes out of one of the big houses

and calls out, `Hello, boy, you're losing your melons!' Some dudes on the other side of the street took their

hats off to her and began to laugh. I couldn't stand it any longer. I grabbed the whip and lit into that team, and

they tore up the hill like jackrabbits, them damned melons bouncing out the back every jump, the old man

cussin' an' yellin' behind and everybody laughin'. I never looked be hind, but the whole of Capitol Hill must

have been a mess with them squashed melons. I didn't stop the team till I got out of sight of town. Then I

pulled up an' left 'em with a rancher I was acquainted with, and I never went home to get the lickin' that was

Thea rolled over in the sand. "Oh, I wish I could have seen those melons fly, Ray! I'll never see anything as

Ray had a collection of good stories. He was observant, truthful, and kindlyperhaps the chief requisites in a

good storyteller. Occasionally he used newspaper phrases, conscientiously learned in his efforts at

selfinstruction, but when he talked naturally he was always worth listening to. Never having had any

schooling to speak of, he had, almost from the time he first ran away, tried to make good his loss. As a

sheepherder he had worried an old grammar to tatters, and read instructive books with the help of a pocket

dic tionary. By the light of many campfires he had pondered upon Prescott's histories, and the works of

Washington Irving, which he bought at a high price from a bookagent. Mathematics and physics were easy

for him, but general culture came hard, and he was determined to get it. Ray was a freethinker, and

inconsistently believed himself damned for being one. When he was braking, down on the Santa Fe, at the

end of his run he used to climb into the upper bunk of the caboose, while a noisy gang played poker about the

stove below him, and by the rooflamp read Robert Ingersoll's speeches and "The Age of Reason."

Ray was a loyalhearted fellow, and it had cost him a great deal to give up his God. He was one of the step

children of Fortune, and he had very little to show for all his hard work; the other fellow always got the best

of it. He had come in too late, or too early, on several schemes that had made money. He brought with him

from all his wanderings a good deal of information (more or less correct in itself, but unrelated, and therefore

misleading), a high standard of personal honor, a sentimental veneration for all women, bad as well as good,

and a bitter hatred of Englishmen. Thea often thought that the nicest thing about Ray was his love for Mexico

and the Mexicans, who had been kind to him when he drifted, a homeless boy, over the border. In Mexico,

Ray was Senor Kenaydy, and when he answered to that name he was somehow a different fellow. He

spoke Spanish fluently, and the sunny warmth of that tongue kept him from being quite as hard as his chin, or

While Ray was smoking his cigar, he and Johnny fell to talking about the great fortunes that had been made

Ray smiled and shook his head. "I've been out on some, John. I've never been exactly in on any. So far, I've

either held on too long or let go too soon. But mine's coming to me, all right." Ray looked reflective. He

leaned back in the shadow and dug out a rest for his elbow in the sand. "The narrowest escape I ever had, was

in the Bridal Cham ber. If I hadn't let go there, it would have made me rich. That was a close call."

"I guess she was! Down at Lake Valley. I put up a few hundred for the prospector, and he gave me a bunch of

stock. Before we'd got anything out of it, my brotherin law died of the fever in Cuba. My sister was beside

herself to get his body back to Colorado to bury him. Seemed foolish to me, but she's the only sister I got. It's

expensive for dead folks to travel, and I had to sell my stock in the mine to raise the money to get Elmer on

the move. Two months afterward, the boys struck that big pocket in the rock, full of virgin silver. They

named her the Bridal Chamber. It wasn't ore, you remember. It was pure, soft metal you could have melted

right down into dollars. The boys cut it out with chisels. If old Elmer hadn't played that trick on me, I'd have

"You bet. Higher'n a kite. There was no vein, just a pocket in the rock that had sometime or another got filled

up with molten silver. You'd think there would be more somewhere about, but NADA. There's fools digging

When Ray had finished his cigar, Johnny took his man dolin and began Kennedy's favorite, "Ultimo Amor."

It was now three o'clock in the afternoon, the hottest hour in the day. The narrow shelf of shadow had

widened until the floor of the amphitheater was marked off in two halves, one glittering yellow, and one

purple. The little boys had come back and were making a robbers' cave to enact the bold deeds of Pedro the

bandit. Johnny, stretched grace fully on the sand, passed from "Ultimo Amor" to "Fluvia de Oro," and then

Every one was busy with his own thoughts. Mrs. Tellamantez was thinking of the square in the little town in

which she was born; of the white churchsteps, with people genuflecting as they passed, and the roundtopped

acacia trees, and the band playing in the plaza. Ray Ken nedy was thinking of the future, dreaming the large

Western dream of easy money, of a fortune kicked up somewhere in the hills,an oil well, a gold mine, a

ledge of copper. He always told himself, when he accepted a cigar from a newly married railroad man, that he

knew enough not to marry until he had found his ideal, and could keep her like a queen. He believed that in

the yellow head over there in the sand he had found his ideal, and that by the time she was old enough to

marry, he would be able to keep her like a queen. He would kick it up from somewhere, when he got loose

Thea, stirred by tales of adventure, of the Grand Canyon and Death Valley, was recalling a great adventure of

her own. Early in the summer her father had been invited to conduct a reunion of old frontiersmen, up in

Wyoming, near Laramie, and he took Thea along with him to play the organ and sing patriotic songs. There

they stayed at the house of an old ranchman who told them about a ridge up in the hills called Laramie Plain,

where the wagontrails of the Fortyniners and the Mormons were still visible. The old man even

volunteered to take Mr. Kronborg up into the hills to see this place, though it was a very long drive to make

in one day. Thea had begged frantically to go along, and the old rancher, flattered by her rapt attention to his

They set out from Laramie before daylight, behind a strong team of mules. All the way there was much talk

of the Fortyniners. The old rancher had been a teamster in a freight train that used to crawl back and forth

across the plains between Omaha and Cherry Creek, as Denver was then called, and he had met many a

wagon train bound for California. He told of Indians and buffalo, thirst and slaughter, wanderings in

The road they followed was a wild and beautiful one. It led up and up, by granite rocks and stunted pines,

around deep ravines and echoing gorges. The top of the ridge, when they reached it, was a great flat plain,

strewn with white boulders, with the wind howling over it. There was not one trail, as Thea had expected;

there were a score; deep fur rows, cut in the earth by heavy wagon wheels, and now grown over with dry,

whitish grass. The furrows ran side by side; when one trail had been worn too deep, the next party had

abandoned it and made a new trail to the right or left. They were, indeed, only old wagon ruts, running east

and west, and grown over with grass. But as Thea ran about among the white stones, her skirts blowing this

way and that, the wind brought to her eyes tears that might have come anyway. The old rancher picked up an

iron oxshoe from one of the furrows and gave it to her for a keepsake. To the west one could see range after

range of blue mountains, and at last the snowy range, with its white, windy peaks, the clouds caught here and

there on their spurs. Again and again Thea had to hide her face from the cold for a moment. The wind never

Coming up from Laramie, the old man had told them that he was in Brownsville, Nebraska, when the first

tele graph wires were put across the Missouri River, and that the first message that ever crossed the river

was "West ward the course of Empire takes its way." He had been in the room when the instrument began to

click, and all the men there had, without thinking what they were doing, taken off their hats, waiting

bareheaded to hear the mes sage translated. Thea remembered that message when she sighted down the

wagon tracks toward the blue moun tains. She told herself she would never, never forget it. The spirit of

human courage seemed to live up there with the eagles. For long after, when she was moved by a

FourthofJuly oration, or a band, or a circus parade, she was apt to remember that windy ridge.

Today she went to sleep while she was thinking about it. When Ray wakened her, the horses were hitched to

the wagon and Gunner and Axel were begging for a place on the front seat. The air had cooled, the sun was

setting, and the desert was on fire. Thea contentedly took the back seat with Mrs. Tellamantez. As they drove

homeward the stars began to come out, pale yellow in a yellow sky, and Ray and Johnny began to sing one of

those railroad ditties that are usually born on the Southern Pacific and run the length of the Santa Fe and the

"Q" system before they die to give place to a new one. This was a song about a Greaser dance, the refrain

Winter was long in coming that year. Throughout October the days were bathed in sunlight and the air was

clear as crystal. The town kept its cheerful sum mer aspect, the desert glistened with light, the sand hills

every day went through magical changes of color. The scarlet sage bloomed late in the front yards, the

cottonwood leaves were bright gold long before they fell, and it was not until November that the green on the

tamarisks began to cloud and fade. There was a flurry of snow about Thanks giving, and then December

Thea had three music pupils now, little girls whose mothers declared that Professor Wunsch was "much too

severe." They took their lessons on Saturday, and this, of course, cut down her time for play. She did not

really mind this because she was allowed to use the moneyher pupils paid her twentyfive cents a

lessonto fit up a little room for herself upstairs in the halfstory. It was the end room of the wing, and was

not plastered, but was snugly lined with soft pine. The ceiling was so low that a grown person could reach it

with the palm of the hand, and it sloped down on either side. There was only one window, but it was a double

one and went to the floor. In October, while the days were still warm, Thea and Tillie papered the room,

walls and ceiling in the same paper, small red and brown roses on a yellowish ground. Thea bought a brown

cotton carpet, and her big brother, Gus, put it down for her one Sunday. She made white cheesecloth curtains

and hung them on a tape. Her mother gave her an old walnut dresser with a broken mirror, and she had her

own dumpy walnut single bed, and a blue washbowl and pitcher which she had drawn at a church fair lottery.

At the head of her bed she had a tall round wooden hatcrate, from the clothing store. This, standing on end

and draped with cretonne, made a fairly steady table for her lantern. She was not allowed to take a lamp

upstairs, so Ray Kennedy gave her a railroad lantern by which she could read at night.

In winter this loft room of Thea's was bitterly cold, but against her mother's adviceand Tillie'sshe

always left her window open a little way. Mrs. Kronborg declared that she "had no patience with American

physiology," though the lessons about the injurious effects of alcohol and tobacco were well enough for the

boys. Thea asked Dr. Archie about the window, and he told her that a girl who sang must always have plenty

of fresh air, or her voice would get husky, and that the cold would harden her throat. The important thing, he

said, was to keep your feet warm. On very cold nights Thea always put a brick in the oven after supper, and

when she went upstairs she wrapped it in an old flannel petticoat and put it in her bed. The boys, who would

never heat bricks for them selves, sometimes carried off Thea's, and thought it a good joke to get ahead of

When Thea first plunged in between her red blankets, the cold sometimes kept her awake for a good while,

and she comforted herself by remembering all she could of "Polar Explorations," a fat, calfbound volume

her father had bought from a bookagent, and by thinking about the members of Greely's party: how they lay

in their frozen sleepingbags, each man hoarding the warmth of his own body and trying to make it last as

long as possible against the oncoming cold that would be everlasting. After half an hour or so, a warm wave

crept over her body and round, sturdy legs; she glowed like a little stove with the warmth of her own blood,

and the heavy quilts and red blankets grew warm wherever they touched her, though her breath sometimes

froze on the coverlid. Before daylight, her inter nal fires went down a little, and she often wakened to find

herself drawn up into a tight ball, somewhat stiff in the legs. But that made it all the easier to get up.

The acquisition of this room was the beginning of a new era in Thea's life. It was one of the most important

things that ever happened to her. Hitherto, except in summer, when she could be out of doors, she had lived

in constant turmoil; the family, the day school, the SundaySchool. The clamor about her drowned the voice

within herself. In the end of the wing, separated from the other upstairs sleepingrooms by a long, cold,

unfinished lumber room, her mind worked better. She thought things out more clearly. Pleasant plans and

ideas occurred to her which had never come before. She had certain thoughts which were like companions,

ideas which were like older and wiser friends. She left them there in the morning, when she fin ished

dressing in the cold, and at night, when she came up with her lantern and shut the door after a busy day, she

found them awaiting her. There was no possible way of heating the room, but that was fortunate, for

From the time when she moved up into the wing, Thea began to live a double life. During the day, when the

hours were full of tasks, she was one of the Kronborg children, but at night she was a different person. On

Friday and Satur day nights she always read for a long while after she was in bed. She had no clock, and

Ray Kennedy, on his way from the depot to his boarding house, often looked up and saw Thea's light

burning when the rest of the house was dark, and felt cheered as by a friendly greeting. He was a faithful

soul, and many dis appointments had not changed his nature. He was still, at heart, the same boy who, when

he was sixteen, had set tled down to freeze with his sheep in a Wyoming blizzard, and had been rescued

Ray had no very clear idea of what might be going on in Thea's head, but he knew that something was. He

used to remark to Spanish Johnny, "That girl is developing something fine." Thea was patient with Ray, even

in regard to the liberties he took with her name. Outside the family, every one in Moonstone, except Wunsch

and Dr. Archie, called her "Theea," but this seemed cold and dis tant to Ray, so he called her "Thee."

Once, in a moment of exasperation, Thea asked him why he did this, and he explained that he once had a

chum, Theodore, whose name was always abbreviated thus, and that since he was killed down on the Santa

Fe, it seemed natural to call somebody "Thee." Thea sighed and submitted. She was always helpless before

It was the custom for each of the different Sunday Schools in Moonstone to give a concert on Christmas

Eve. But this year all the churches were to unite and give, as was announced from the pulpits, "a semisacred

concert of picked talent" at the opera house. The Moonstone Orchestra, under the direction of Professor

Wunsch, was to play, and the most talented members of each Sunday School were to take part in the

programme. Thea was put down by the committee "for instrumental." This made her indignant, for the vocal

numbers were always more popular. Thea went to the president of the committee and demanded hotly if her

rival, Lily Fisher, were going to sing. The president was a big, florid, powdered woman, a fierce W.C.T.U.

worker, one of Thea's natural enemies. Her name was Johnson; her husband kept the livery stable, and she

was called Mrs. Livery Johnson, to distinguish her from other families of the same surname. Mrs. Johnson

was a prominent Baptist, and Lily Fisher was the Baptist prodigy. There was a not very Christian rivalry

When Thea asked Mrs. Johnson whether her rival was to be allowed to sing, Mrs. Johnson, with an eagerness

which told how she had waited for this moment, replied that "Lily was going to recite to be obliging, and to

give other children a chance to sing." As she delivered this thrust, her eyes glittered more than the Ancient

Mariner's, Thea thought. Mrs. Johnson disapproved of the way in which Thea was being brought up, of a

child whose chosen associates were Mexicans and sinners, and who was, as she pointedly put it, "bold with

men." She so enjoyed an op portunity to rebuke Thea, that, tightly corseted as she was, she could scarcely

control her breathing, and her lace and her gold watch chain rose and fell "with short, uneasy motion."

Frowning, Thea turned away and walked slowly homeward. She suspected guile. Lily Fisher was the most

stuckup doll in the world, and it was certainly not like her to recite to be obliging. Nobody who could sing

However, when the programme was printed in the Moon stone GLEAM, there it was: "Instrumental solo,

Because his orchestra was to play for the concert, Mr. Wunsch imagined that he had been put in charge of the

music, and he became arrogant. He insisted that Thea should play a "Ballade" by Reinecke. When Thea con

sulted her mother, Mrs. Kronborg agreed with her that the "Ballade" would "never take" with a Moonstone

audi ence. She advised Thea to play "something with varia tions," or, at least, "The Invitation to the

"It makes no matter what they like," Wunsch replied to Thea's entreaties. "It is time already that they learn

Thea's fighting powers had been impaired by an ulcer ated tooth and consequent loss of sleep, so she gave

in. She finally had the molar pulled, though it was a second tooth and should have been saved. The dentist

was a clumsy, ignorant country boy, and Mr. Kronborg would not hear of Dr. Archie's taking Thea to a

dentist in Denver, though Ray Kennedy said he could get a pass for her. What with the pain of the tooth, and

family discussions about it, with trying to make Christmas presents and to keep up her school work and

On Christmas Eve she was nervous and excited. It was the first time she had ever played in the opera house,

and she had never before had to face so many people. Wunsch would not let her play with her notes, and she

was afraid of forgetting. Before the concert began, all the par ticipants had to assemble on the stage and sit

there to be looked at. Thea wore her white summer dress and a blue sash, but Lily Fisher had a new pink silk,

The hall was packed. It seemed as if every one in Moon stone was there, even Mrs. Kohler, in her hood, and

old Fritz. The seats were wooden kitchen chairs, numbered, and nailed to long planks which held them

together in rows. As the floor was not raised, the chairs were all on the same level. The more interested

persons in the audience peered over the heads of the people in front of them to get a good view of the stage.

From the platform Thea picked out many friendly faces. There was Dr. Archie, who never went to church

entertainments; there was the friendly jeweler who ordered her music for her,he sold accor dions and

guitars as well as watches,and the druggist who often lent her books, and her favorite teacher from the

school. There was Ray Kennedy, with a party of freshly barbered railroad men he had brought along with

him. There was Mrs. Kronborg with all the children, even Thor, who had been brought out in a new white

plush coat. At the back of the hall sat a little group of Mexicans, and among them Thea caught the gleam of

Spanish Johnny's white teeth, and of Mrs. Tellamantez's lustrous, smoothly coiled black hair.

After the orchestra played "Selections from Erminie," and the Baptist preacher made a long prayer, Tillie

Kron borg came on with a highly colored recitation, "The Polish Boy." When it was over every one

breathed more freely. No committee had the courage to leave Tillie off a pro gramme. She was accepted as

a trying feature of every entertainment. The Progressive Euchre Club was the only social organization in the

town that entirely escaped Tillie. After Tillie sat down, the Ladies' Quartette sang, "Beloved, it is Night," and

The "Ballade" took ten minutes, which was five minutes too long. The audience grew restive and fell to

whispering. Thea could hear Mrs. Livery Johnson's bracelets jangling as she fanned herself, and she could

hear her father's nerv ous, ministerial cough. Thor behaved better than any one else. When Thea bowed and

returned to her seat at the back of the stage there was the usual applause, but it was vigorous only from the

back of the house where the Mexi cans sat, and from Ray Kennedy's CLAQUEURS. Any one could see that

Because Mr. Kronborg's sister was on the programme, it had also been necessary to ask the Baptist preacher's

wife's cousin to sing. She was a "deep alto" from McCook, and she sang, "Thy Sentinel Am I." After her

came Lily Fisher. Thea's rival was also a blonde, but her hair was much heavier than Thea's, and fell in long

round curls over her shoulders. She was the angelchild of the Baptists, and looked exactly like the beautiful

children on soap calen dars. Her pinkandwhite face, her set smile of innocence, were surely born of a

colorpress. She had long, drooping eyelashes, a little pursedup mouth, and narrow, pointed teeth, like a

Thea drew a long breath. That was the game; it was a recitation and a song in one. Lily trailed the hymn

through half a dozen verses with great effect. The Baptist preacher had announced at the beginning of the

concert that "owing to the length of the programme, there would be no encores." But the applause which

followed Lily to her seat was such an unmistakable expression of enthusi asm that Thea had to admit Lily

was justified in going back. She was attended this time by Mrs. Livery Johnson herself, crimson with triumph

and gleamingeyed, nerv ously rolling and unrolling a sheet of music. She took off her bracelets and played

Lily's accompaniment. Lily had the effrontery to come out with, "She sang the song of Home, Sweet Home,

the song that touched my heart." But this did not surprise Thea; as Ray said later in the evening, "the cards

had been stacked against her from the begin ning." The next issue of the GLEAM correctly stated that

"unquestionably the honors of the evening must be ac corded to Miss Lily Fisher." The Baptists had

After the concert Ray Kennedy joined the Kronborgs' party and walked home with them. Thea was grateful

for his silent sympathy, even while it irritated her. She in wardly vowed that she would never take another

lesson from old Wunsch. She wished that her father would not keep cheerfully singing, "When Shepherds

Watched," as he marched ahead, carrying Thor. She felt that silence would become the Kronborgs for a

while. As a family, they somehow seemed a little ridiculous, trooping along in the starlight. There were so

many of them, for one thing. Then Tillie was so absurd. She was giggling and talking to Anna just as if she

When they got home, Ray took a box from his overcoat pocket and slipped it into Thea's hand as he said

good night. They all hurried in to the glowing stove in the parlor. The sleepy children were sent to bed. Mrs.

"I guess you're tired, Thea. You needn't stay up." Mrs. Kronborg's clear and seemingly indifferent eye usu

Thea hesitated. She glanced at the presents laid out on the diningroom table, but they looked unattractive.

Even the brown plush monkey she had bought for Thor with such enthusiasm seemed to have lost his wise

and humorous expression. She murmured, "All right," to her mother, lit her lantern, and went upstairs.

Ray's box contained a handpainted white satin fan, with pond liliesan unfortunate reminder. Thea smiled

grimly and tossed it into her upper drawer. She was not to be consoled by toys. She undressed quickly and

stood for some time in the cold, frowning in the broken looking glass at her flaxen pigtails, at her white

neck and arms. Her own broad, resolute face set its chin at her, her eyes flashed into her own defiantly. Lily

Fisher was pretty, and she was willing to be just as big a fool as people wanted her to be. Very well; Thea

Kronborg wasn't. She would rather be hated than be stupid, any day. She popped into bed and read stubbornly

at a queer paper book the drugstore man had given her because he couldn't sell it. She had trained herself to

put her mind on what she was doing, otherwise she would have come to grief with her complicated daily

schedule. She read, as intently as if she had not been flushed with anger, the strange "Musical Memories" of

the Reverend H. R. Haweis. At last she blew out the lan tern and went to sleep. She had many curious

dreams that night. In one of them Mrs. Tellamantez held her shell to Thea's ear, and she heard the roaring, as

Mr. Kronborg considered Thea a remarkable child; but so were all his children remarkable. If one of the

business men downtown remarked to him that he "had a mighty bright little girl, there," he admitted it, and at

once began to explain what a "long head for business" his son Gus had, or that Charley was "a natural

electri cian," and had put in a telephone from the house to the preacher's study behind the church.

Mrs. Kronborg watched her daughter thoughtfully. She found her more interesting than her other children,

and she took her more seriously, without thinking much about why she did so. The other children had to be

guided, di rected, kept from conflicting with one another. Charley and Gus were likely to want the same

thing, and to quarrel about it. Anna often demanded unreasonable service from her older brothers; that they

should sit up until after mid night to bring her home from parties when she did not like the youth who had

offered himself as her escort; or that they should drive twelve miles into the country, on a winter night, to

take her to a ranch dance, after they had been working hard all day. Gunner often got bored with his own

clothes or stilts or sled, and wanted Axel's. But Thea, from the time she was a little thing, had her own

routine. She kept out of every one's way, and was hard to manage only when the other children interfered

with her. Then there was trouble indeed: bursts of temper which used to alarm Mrs. Kronborg. "You ought to

know enough to let Thea alone. She lets you alone," she often said to the other children.

One may have staunch friends in one's own family, but one seldom has admirers. Thea, however, had one in

the person of her addlepated aunt, Tillie Kronborg. In older countries, where dress and opinions and

manners are not so thoroughly standardized as in our own West, there is a belief that people who are foolish

about the more obvious things of life are apt to have peculiar insight into what lies beyond the obvious. The

old woman who can never learn not to put the kerosene can on the stove, may yet be able to tell fortunes, to

persuade a backward child to grow, to cure warts, or to tell people what to do with a young girl who has gone

melancholy. Tillie's mind was a curious machine; when she was awake it went round like a wheel when the

belt has slipped off, and when she was asleep she dreamed follies. But she had intuitions. She knew, for

instance, that Thea was different from the other Kron borgs, worthy though they all were. Her romantic im

agination found possibilities in her niece. When she was sweeping or ironing, or turning the icecream

freezer at a furious rate, she often built up brilliant futures for Thea, adapting freely the latest novel she had

Tillie made enemies for her niece among the church people because, at sewing societies and church suppers,

she sometimes spoke vauntingly, with a toss of her head, just as if Thea's "wonderfulness" were an accepted

fact in Moonstone, like Mrs. Archie's stinginess, or Mrs. Livery Johnson's duplicity. People declared that, on

Tillie belonged to a dramatic club that once a year per formed in the Moonstone Opera House such plays as

"Among the Breakers," and "The Veteran of 1812." Tillie played character parts, the flirtatious old maid or

the spiteful INTRIGANTE. She used to study her parts up in the attic at home. While she was committing the

lines, she got Gunner or Anna to hold the book for her, but when she began "to bring out the expression," as

she said, she used, very timorously, to ask Thea to hold the book. Thea was usuallynot alwaysagreeable

about it. Her mother had told her that, since she had some influence with Tillie, it would be a good thing for

them all if she could tone her down a shade and "keep her from taking on any worse than need be." Thea

would sit on the foot of Tillie's bed, her feet tucked under her, and stare at the silly text. "I wouldn't make so

much fuss, there, Tillie," she would remark occasionally; "I don't see the point in it"; or, "What do you pitch

"I don't see how it comes Thea is so patient with Til lie," Mrs. Kronborg more than once remarked to her

hus band. "She ain't patient with most people, but it seems like she's got a peculiar patience for Tillie."

Tillie always coaxed Thea to go "behind the scenes" with her when the club presented a play, and help her

with her makeup. Thea hated it, but she always went. She felt as if she had to do it. There was something in

Tillie's adoration of her that compelled her. There was no family impropriety that Thea was so much ashamed

of as Tillie's "acting" and yet she was always being dragged in to assist her. Tillie simply had her, there. She

didn't know why, but it was so. There was a string in her somewhere that Tillie could pull; a sense of

obligation to Tillie's misguided aspirations. The saloonkeepers had some such feeling of responsibility

The dramatic club was the pride of Tillie's heart, and her enthusiasm was the principal factor in keeping it

together. Sick or well, Tillie always attended rehearsals, and was always urging the young people, who took

rehearsals lightly, to "stop fooling and begin now." The young men bank clerks, grocery clerks, insurance

agentsplayed tricks, laughed at Tillie, and "put it up on each other" about seeing her home; but they often

went to tiresome rehearsals just to oblige her. They were goodnatured young fellows. Their trainer and

stagemanager was young Upping, the jeweler who ordered Thea's music for her. Though barely thirty, he

had followed half a dozen pro fessions, and had once been a violinist in the orchestra of the Andrews Opera

By one amazing indiscretion Tillie very nearly lost her hold upon the Moonstone Drama Club. The club had

de cided to put on "The Drummer Boy of Shiloh," a very ambitious undertaking because of the many supers

needed and the scenic difficulties of the act which took place in Andersonville Prison. The members of the

club consulted together in Tillie's absence as to who should play the part of the drummer boy. It must be

taken by a very young person, and village boys of that age are selfconscious and are not apt at memorizing.

The part was a long one, and clearly it must be given to a girl. Some members of the club suggested Thea

Kronborg, others advocated Lily Fisher. Lily's partisans urged that she was much prettier than Thea, and had

a much "sweeter disposition." No body denied these facts. But there was nothing in the least boyish about

Lily, and she sang all songs and played all parts alike. Lily's simper was popular, but it seemed not quite the

Upping, the trainer, talked to one and another: "Lily's all right for girl parts," he insisted, "but you've got to

get a girl with some ginger in her for this. Thea's got the voice, too. When she sings, `Just Before the Battle,

When all the members of the club had been privately consulted, they announced their decision to Tillie at the

first regular meeting that was called to cast the parts. They expected Tillie to be overcome with joy, but, on

the contrary, she seemed embarrassed. "I'm afraid Thea hasn't got time for that," she said jerkily. "She is

The club lifted its eyebrows. Several of Lily Fisher's friends coughed. Mr. Upping flushed. The stout woman

who always played the injured wife called Tillie's attention to the fact that this would be a fine opportunity

Tillie threw up her head and laughed; there was some thing sharp and wild about Tillie's laughwhen it

was not a giggle. "Oh, I guess Thea hasn't got time to do any showing off. Her time to show off ain't come

yet. I expect she'll make us all sit up when it does. No use asking her to take the part. She'd turn her nose up

at it. I guess they'd be glad to get her in the Denver Dramatics, if they could."

The company broke up into groups and expressed their amazement. Of course all Swedes were conceited, but

they would never have believed that all the conceit of all the Swedes put together would reach such a pitch as

this. They confided to each other that Tillie was "just a little off, on the subject of her niece," and agreed that

it would be as well not to excite her further. Tillie got a cold reception at rehearsals for a long while

Wunsch and old Fritz and Spanish Johnny cele brated Christmas together, so riotously that Wunsch was

unable to give Thea her lesson the next day. In the middle of the vacation week Thea went to the Kohl ers'

through a soft, beautiful snowstorm. The air was a tender bluegray, like the color on the doves that flew in

and out of the white dovehouse on the post in the Kohl ers' garden. The sand hills looked dim and sleepy.

The tamarisk hedge was full of snow, like a foam of blossoms drifted over it. When Thea opened the gate, old

Mrs. Kohler was just coming in from the chicken yard, with five fresh eggs in her apron and a pair of old

topboots on her feet. She called Thea to come and look at a bantam egg, which she held up proudly. Her

bantam hens were remiss in zeal, and she was always delighted when they accom plished anything. She

took Thea into the sittingroom, very warm and smelling of food, and brought her a plateful of little

Christmas cakes, made according to old and hal lowed formulae, and put them before her while she warmed

her feet. Then she went to the door of the kitchen stairs and called: "Herr Wunsch, Herr Wunsch!"

Wunsch came down wearing an old wadded jacket, with a velvet collar. The brown silk was so worn that the

wad ding stuck out almost everywhere. He avoided Thea's eyes when he came in, nodded without speaking,

and pointed directly to the piano stool. He was not so insistent upon the scales as usual, and throughout the

little sonata of Mozart's she was studying, he remained languid and absentminded. His eyes looked very

heavy, and he kept wiping them with one of the new silk handkerchiefs Mrs. Kohler had given him for

Christmas. When the lesson was over he did not seem inclined to talk. Thea, loitering on the stool, reached

for a tattered book she had taken off the musicrest when she sat down. It was a very old Leipsic edition of

"It is the most beautiful opera ever made," Wunsch de clared solemnly. "You know the story, eh? How,

"Oh, yes, I know. I didn't know there was an opera about it, though. Do people sing this now?"

"ABER JA! What else? You like to try? See." He drew her from the stool and sat down at the piano. Turning

over the leaves to the third act, he handed the score to Thea. "Listen, I play it through and you get the

RHYTHMUS. EINS, ZWEI, DREI, VIER." He played through Orpheus' lament, then pushed back his cuffs

Wunsch sang the aria with much feeling. It was evidently one that was very dear to him.

"NOCH EINMAL, alone, yourself." He played the intro ductory measures, then nodded at her vehemently,

When she finished, Wunsch nodded again. "SCHON," he muttered as he finished the accompaniment softly.

He dropped his hands on his knees and looked up at Thea. "That is very fine, eh? There is no such beautiful

melody in the world. You can take the book for one week and learn something, to pass the time. It is good to

Thea, who was turning over the pages of the third act, stopped and scowled at a passage. The old German's

"For what do you look so, IMMER?" puckering up his own face. "You see something a little difficult,

Thea laughed, disconcerted. "Well, difficult things are enemies, aren't they? When you have to get them?"

Wunsch lowered his head and threw it up as if he were butting something. "Not at all! By no means." He took

the book from her and looked at it. "Yes, that is not so easy, there. This is an old book. They do not print it so

now any more, I think. They leave it out, maybe. Only one woman could sing that good."

Wunsch went on. "It is written for alto, you see. A woman sings the part, and there was only one to sing that

good in there. You understand? Only one!" He glanced at her quickly and lifted his red forefinger upright

Thea looked at the finger as if she were hypnotized. "Only one?" she asked breathlessly; her hands, hanging

Wunsch nodded and still held up that compelling finger. When he dropped his hands, there was a look of

"ABER GAR NICHT! Not at all. She was ugly; big mouth, big teeth, no figure, nothing at all," indicating a

luxuriant bosom by sweeping his hands over his chest. "A pole, a post! But for the voiceACH! She have

"No, SPANISCH." He looked down and frowned for a moment. "ACH, I tell you, she look like the Frau

"Die? I think not. I never hear, anyhow. I guess she is alive somewhere in the world; Paris, maybe. But old,

Wunsch nodded gravely. "Quite so. She was the most" he hunted for an English word, lifted his hand over

his head and snapped his fingers noiselessly in the air, enunciating fiercely, "KUNSTLERISCH!" The

Wunsch rose from the stool and began to button his wadded jacket, preparing to return to his halfheated

room in the loft. Thea regretfully put on her cloak and hood and set out for home.

When Wunsch looked for his score late that afternoon, he found that Thea had not forgotten to take it with

her. He smiled his loose, sarcastic smile, and thoughtfully rubbed his stubbly chin with his red fingers. When

Fritz came home in the early blue twilight the snow was flying faster, Mrs. Kohler was cooking

HASENPFEFFER in the kitchen, and the professor was seated at the piano, playing the Gluck, which he

knew by heart. Old Fritz took off his shoes quietly behind the stove and lay down on the lounge before his

masterpiece, where the firelight was playing over the walls of Moscow. He listened, while the room grew

One Saturday, late in June, Thea arrived early for her lesson. As she perched herself upon the piano stool,

a wobbly, oldfashioned thing that worked on a creaky screw,she gave Wunsch a side glance, smiling.

After the lesson they went out to join Mrs. Kohler, who had asked Thea to come early, so that she could stay

and smell the linden bloom. It was one of those still days of intense light, when every particle of mica in the

soil flashed like a little mirror, and the glare from the plain below seemed more intense than the rays from

above. The sand ridges ran glittering gold out to where the mirage licked them up, shining and steaming like

a lake in the tropics. The sky looked like blue lava, forever incapable of clouds, a turquoise bowl that was

the lid of the desert. And yet within Mrs. Kohler's green patch the water dripped, the beds had all been hosed,

The two symmetrical linden trees were the proudest things in the garden. Their sweetness embalmed all the

air. At every turn of the paths,whether one went to see the hollyhocks or the bleeding heart, or to look at

the pur ple morningglories that ran over the beanpoles,wher ever one went, the sweetness of the

lindens struck one afresh and one always came back to them. Under the round leaves, where the waxen

yellow blossoms hung, bevies of wild bees were buzzing. The tamarisks were still pink, and the flowerbeds

were doing their best in honor of the linden festival. The white dovehouse was shining with a fresh coat of

paint, and the pigeons were crooning contentedly, flying down often to drink at the drip from the water tank.

Mrs. Kohler, who was transplanting pansies, came up with her trowel and told Thea it was lucky to have your

birthday when the lindens were in bloom, and that she must go and look at the sweet peas. Wunsch

he muttered. "You know that von Heine? IM LEUCHTENDEN SOMMERMORGEN?" He looked down at

"FLUSTERN?to whisper. You must begin now to know such things. That is necessary. How many

"Thirteen. I'm in my 'teens now. But how can I know words like that? I only know what you say at my

"It is always possible to learn when one likes," said Wunsch. His words were peremptory, as usual, but his

tone was mild, even confidential. "There is always a way. And if some day you are going to sing, it is

Thea stooped over to pick a leaf of rosemary. How did Wunsch know that, when the very roses on her

"That is for you to say," returned Wunsch coldly. "You would better marry some JACOB here and keep the

Thea flashed up at him a clear, laughing look. "No, I don't want to do that. You know," she brushed his coat

sleeve quickly with her yellow head. "Only how can I learn anything here? It's so far from Denver."

Wunsch's loose lower lip curled in amusement. Then, as if he suddenly remembered something, he spoke

seriously. "Nothing is far and nothing is near, if one desires. The world is little, people are little, human life is

little. There is only one big thingdesire. And before it, when it is big, all is little. It brought Columbus

across the sea in a little boat, UND SO WEITER." Wunsch made a grimace, took his pupil's hand and drew

her toward the grape arbor. "Here after I will more speak to you in German. Now, sit down and I will teach

you for your birthday that little song. Ask me the words you do not know already. Now: IM LEUCH

Thea memorized quickly because she had the power of listening intently. In a few moments she could repeat

the eight lines for him. Wunsch nodded encouragingly and they went out of the arbor into the sunlight again.

As they went up and down the gravel paths between the flower beds, the white and yellow butterflies kept

darting before them, and the pigeons were washing their pink feet at the drip and crooning in their husky

bass. Over and over again Wunsch made her say the lines to him. "You see it is nothing. If you learn a great

many of the LIEDER, you will know the German language already. WEITER, NUN." He would incline his

Wunsch had noticed before that when his pupil read anything in verse the character of her voice changed

alto gether; it was no longer the voice which spoke the speech of Moonstone. It was a soft, rich contralto,

and she read quietly; the feeling was in the voice itself, not indicated by emphasis or change of pitch. She

repeated the little verses musically, like a song, and the entreaty of the flowers was even softer than the rest,

as the shy speech of flowers might be, and she ended with the voice suspended, almost with a rising

inflection. It was a naturevoice, Wunsch told him self, breathed from the creature and apart from language,

"What is it the flowers mean when they ask him not to be harsh to their sister, eh?" he asked, looking down at

Thea glanced at him in surprise. "I suppose he thinks they are asking him not to be harsh to his

They had come back to the grape arbor, and Thea picked out a sunny place on the bench, where a

tortoiseshell cat was stretched at full length. She sat down, bending over the cat and teasing his whiskers.

"Because he had been awake all night, thinking about her, wasn't it? Maybe that was why he was up so

Wunsch shrugged his shoulders. "If he think about her all night already, why do you say the flowers remind

Thea looked up at him in perplexity. A flash of compre hension lit her face and she smiled eagerly. "Oh, I

didn't mean `remind' in that way! I didn't mean they brought her to his mind! I meant it was only when he

came out in the morning, that she seemed to him like that,like one of the flowers."

This time it was Thea who shrugged her shoulders. The warm smile left her face. She lifted her eyebrows in

"Because it would be silly. You are just trying to make me say things. It spoils things to ask questions."

Wunsch bowed mockingly; his smile was disagreeable. Suddenly his face grew grave, grew fierce, indeed.

He pulled himself up from his clumsy stoop and folded his arms. "But it is necessary to know if you know

somethings. Some things cannot be taught. If you not know in the beginning, you not know in the end. For a

singer there must be some thing in the inside from the beginning. I shall not be long in this place, maybe,

and I like to know. Yes,"he ground his heel in the gravel,"yes, when you are barely six, you must know

that already. That is the beginning of all things; DER GEIST, DIE PHANTASIE. It must be in the baby,

when it makes its first cry, like DER RHYTHMUS, or it is not to be. You have some voice already, and if in

the beginning, when you are with thingstoplay, you know that what you will not tell me, then you can

Wunsch began to pace the arbor, rubbing his hands to gether. The dark flush of his face had spread up under

the irongray bristles on his head. He was talking to himself, not to Thea. Insidious power of the linden

bloom! "Oh, much you can learn! ABER NICHT DIE AMERICANISCHEN FRAU LEIN. They have

nothing inside them," striking his chest with both fists. "They are like the ones in the MAR CHEN, a

grinning face and hollow in the insides. Some thing they can learn, oh, yes, maybe! But the secret what

make the rose to red, the sky to blue, the man to love IN DER BRUST, IN DER BRUST it is, UND OHNE

DIESES GIEBT ES KEINE KUNST, GIEBT ES KEINE KUNST!" He threw up his square hand and shook

it, all the fingers apart and wagging. Purple and breathless he went out of the arbor and into the house,

without saying goodbye. These outbursts frightened Wunsch. They were always harbingers of ill.

Thea got her musicbook and stole quietly out of the garden. She did not go home, but wandered off into the

sand dunes, where the prickly pear was in blossom and the green lizards were racing each other in the

glittering light. She was shaken by a passionate excitement. She did not altogether understand what Wunsch

was talking about; and yet, in a way she knew. She knew, of course, that there was something about her that

was different. But it was more like a friendly spirit than like anything that was a part of herself. She thought

everything to it, and it an swered her; happiness consisted of that backward and for ward movement of

herself. The something came and went, she never knew how. Sometimes she hunted for it and could not find

it; again, she lifted her eyes from a book, or stepped out of doors, or wakened in the morning, and it was

there, under her cheek, it usually seemed to be, or over her breast,a kind of warm sureness. And when it

was there, everything was more interesting and beautiful, even people. When this companion was with her,

she could get the most wonderful things out of Spanish Johnny, or Wunsch, or Dr. Archie.

On her thirteenth birthday she wandered for a long while about the sand ridges, picking up crystals and

looking into the yellow pricklypear blossoms with their thousand sta mens. She looked at the sand hills

until she wished she WERE a sand hill. And yet she knew that she was going to leave them all behind some

day. They would be changing all day long, yellow and purple and lavender, and she would not be there. From

that day on, she felt there was a secret between her and Wunsch. Together they had lifted a lid, pulled out a

drawer, and looked at something. They hid it away and never spoke of what they had seen; but neither of

One July night, when the moon was full, Dr. Archie was coming up from the depot, restless and discon

tented, wishing there were something to do. He carried his straw hat in his hand, and kept brushing his hair

back from his forehead with a purposeless, unsatisfied gesture. After he passed Uncle Billy Beemer's

cottonwood grove, the sidewalk ran out of the shadow into the white moon light and crossed the sand gully

on high posts, like a bridge. As the doctor approached this trestle, he saw a white figure, and recognized Thea

"Oh, I don't know. What do people go to bed so early for? I'd like to run along before the houses and screech

"Think of it," Thea snorted impatiently. "Nobody up but us and the rabbits! I've started up half a dozen of

'em. Look at that little one down there now,"she stooped and pointed. In the gully below them there was,

indeed, a little rabbit with a white spot of a tail, crouching down on the sand, quite motionless. It seemed to

be lapping up the moonlight like cream. On the other side of the walk, down in the ditch, there was a patch of

tall, rank sunflowers, their shaggy leaves white with dust. The moon stood over the cottonwood grove. There

"Well, we may as well watch the rabbits." Dr. Archie sat down on the sidewalk and let his feet hang over the

edge. He pulled out a smooth linen handkerchief that smelled of German cologne water. "Well, how goes it?

Thea shook her head. "Oh, no, I don't, Dr. Archie. He's hard to get at, but he's been a real musician in his

time. Mother says she believes he's forgotten more than the musicteachers down in Denver ever knew."

"I'm afraid he won't be around here much longer," said Dr. Archie. "He's been making a tank of himself

lately. He'll be pulling his freight one of these days. That's the way they do, you know. I'll be sorry on your

account." He paused and ran his fresh handkerchief over his face. "What the deuce are we all here for

"Well, primarily, yes. But secondarily, why are we in Moonstone? It isn't as if we'd been born here. You

were, but Wunsch wasn't, and I wasn't. I suppose I'm here because I married as soon as I got out of medical

school and had to get a practice quick. If you hurry things, you always get left in the end. I don't learn

anything here, and as for the people In my own town in Michigan, now, there were people who liked me

on my father's account, who had even known my grandfather. That meant something. But here it's all like the

sand: blows north one day and south the next. We're all a lot of gamblers without much nerve, playing for

small stakes. The railroad is the one real fact in this country. That has to be; the world has to be got back and

forth. But the rest of us are here just because it's the end of a run and the engine has to have a drink. Some

day I'll get up and find my hair turning gray, and I'll have nothing to show for it."

Thea slid closer to him and caught his arm. "No, no. I won't let you get gray. You've got to stay young for

"Yes. People aren't young when they're children. Look at Thor, now; he's just a little old man. But Gus has a

"Something in that!" Dr. Archie patted her head, and then felt the shape of her skull gently, with the tips of

his fingers. "When you were little, Thea, I used always to be curious about the shape of your head. You

seemed to have more inside it than most youngsters. I haven't examined it for a long time. Seems to be the

usual shape, but uncom monly hard, some how. What are you going to do with yourself, anyway?"

"You've got something up your sleeve, haven't you? Anything you like; only don't marry and settle down here

"That's all right about the rabbits, but I don't want you to get tied up. Remember that."

Thea nodded. "Be nice to Wunsch, then. I don't know what I'd do if he went away."

"I know." Thea spoke seriously and looked up at the moon, propping her chin on her hand. "But Wunsch is

the only one that can teach me what I want to know. I've got to learn to do something well, and that's the

"Maybe, but I want to be a good one. I'd like to go to Germany to study, some day. Wunsch says that's the

best place,the only place you can really learn." Thea hesi tated and then went on nervously, "I've got a

book that says so, too. It's called `My Musical Memories.' It made me want to go to Germany even before

Dr. Archie smiled indulgently. "That's a long way off. Is that what you've got in your hard noddle?" He put

"No, I don't think much about it. But you talk about going, and a body has to have something to go TO!"

"That's so." Dr. Archie sighed. "You're lucky if you have. Poor Wunsch, now, he hasn't. What do such

fellows come out here for? He's been asking me about my mining stock, and about mining towns. What

would he do in a mining town? He wouldn't know a piece of ore if he saw one. He's got nothing to sell that a

mining town wants to buy. Why don't those old fellows stay at home? We won't need them for another

hundred years. An engine wiper can get a job, but a piano player! Such people can't make good."

Dr. Archie chuckled. "Oh, a Swede can make good any where, at anything! You've got that in your favor,

Thea rose. "Yes, I used to be ashamed of being a Swede, but I'm not any more. Swedes are kind of common,

"I'll keep on growing, don't you think? I particularly want to be tall. Yes, I guess I must go home. I wish

"Yes, so the firebell would ring and the roundhouse whistle would blow, and everybody would come

running out. Sometime I'm going to ring the firebell myself and stir them all up."

Dr. Archie gave one of his low, sympathetic chuckles as he opened the gate for her. "You're beginning to

grow up, that's what's the matter with you. I'll have to keep an eye on you. Now you'll have to say goodnight

"No, I won't. I sleep on the floor now, right in the moon light. My window comes down to the floor, and I

She shot round the house to the kitchen door, and Dr. Archie watched her disappear with a sigh. He thought

of the hard, mean, frizzy little woman who kept his house for him; once the belle of a Michigan town, now

dry and withered up at thirty. "If I had a daughter like Thea to watch," he reflected, "I wouldn't mind

anything. I won der if all of my life's going to be a mistake just because I made a big one then? Hardly

Howard Archie was "respected" rather than popular in Moonstone. Everyone recognized that he was a good

physician, and a progressive Western town likes to be able to point to a handsome, wellsetup,

welldressed man among its citizens. But a great many people thought Archie "distant," and they were right.

He had the uneasy manner of a man who is not among his own kind, and who has not seen enough of the

world to feel that all people are in some sense his own kind. He knew that every one was curious about his

wife, that she played a sort of character part in Moonstone, and that people made fun of her, not very

delicately. Her own friendsmost of them women who were distasteful to Archieliked to ask her to con

tribute to church charities, just to see how mean she could be. The little, lopsided cake at the church supper,

the cheapest pincushion, the skimpiest apron at the bazaar, were always Mrs. Archie's contribution.

All this hurt the doctor's pride. But if there was one thing he had learned, it was that there was no changing

Belle's nature. He had married a mean woman; and he must accept the consequences. Even in Colorado he

would have had no pretext for divorce, and, to do him jus tice, he had never thought of such a thing. The

tenets of the Presbyterian Church in which he had grown up, though he had long ceased to believe in them,

still influenced his conduct and his conception of propriety. To him there was something vulgar about

divorce. A divorced man was a disgraced man; at least, he had exhibited his hurt, and made it a matter for

common gossip. Respectability was so necessary to Archie that he was willing to pay a high price for it. As

long as he could keep up a decent exterior, he could manage to get on; and if he could have concealed his

wife's littleness from all his friends, he would scarcely have complained. He was more afraid of pity than he

was of any unhappiness. Had there been another woman for whom he cared greatly, he might have had plenty

There was a puzzling timidity in Archie's makeup. The thing that held his shoulders stiff, that made him

resort to a mirthless little laugh when he was talking to dull people, that made him sometimes stumble over

rugs and carpets, had its counterpart in his mind. He had not the courage to be an honest thinker. He could

comfort himself by eva sions and compromises. He consoled himself for his own marriage by telling

himself that other people's were not much better. In his work he saw pretty deeply into marital relations in

Moonstone, and he could honestly say that there were not many of his friends whom he envied. Their wives

Although Dr. Archie could not bring himself to regard marriage merely as a social contract, but looked upon

it as somehow made sacred by a church in which he did not be lieve,as a physician he knew that a young

man whose marriage is merely nominal must yet go on living his life. When he went to Denver or to Chicago,

he drifted about in careless company where gayety and goodhumor can be bought, not because he had any

taste for such society, but because he honestly believed that anything was better than divorce. He often told

himself that "hanging and wiving go by destiny." If wiving went badly with a man, and it did oftener than

not,then he must do the best he could to keep up appearances and help the tradition of domestic happiness

along. The Moonstone gossips, as sembled in Mrs. Smiley's millinery and notion store, often discussed Dr.

Archie's politeness to his wife, and his pleas ant manner of speaking about her. "Nobody has ever got a

thing out of him yet," they agreed. And it was certainly not because no one had ever tried.

When he was down in Denver, feeling a little jolly, Archie could forget how unhappy he was at home, and

could even make himself believe that he missed his wife. He always bought her presents, and would have

liked to send her flowers if she had not repeatedly told him never to send her anything but bulbs,which did

not appeal to him in his expansive moments. At the Denver Athletic Club ban quets, or at dinner with his

colleagues at the Brown Palace Hotel, he sometimes spoke sentimentally about "little Mrs. Archie," and he

The determining factor about Dr. Archie was that he was romantic. He had married Belle White because he

was romantictoo romantic to know anything about women, except what he wished them to be, or to

repulse a pretty girl who had set her cap for him. At medical school, though he was a rather wild boy in

behavior, he had always dis liked coarse jokes and vulgar stories. In his old Flint's Physiology there was still

a poem he had pasted there when he was a student; some verses by Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes about the

ideals of the medical profession. After so much and such disillusioning experience with it, he still had a

romantic feeling about the human body; a sense that finer things dwelt in it than could be explained by

anatomy. He never jested about birth or death or marriage, and did not like to hear other doctors do it. He was

a good nurse, and had a reverence for the bodies of women and children. When he was tending them, one saw

him at his best. Then his constraint and selfconsciousness fell away from him. He was easy, gentle,

competent, master of himself and of other people. Then the idealist in him was not afraid of being discovered

In his tastes, too, the doctor was romantic. Though he read Balzac all the year through, he still enjoyed the

Waverley Novels as much as when he had first come upon them, in thick leatherbound volumes, in his

grandfather's library. He nearly always read Scott on Christmas and holidays, because it brought back the

pleasures of his boy hood so vividly. He liked Scott's women. Constance de Beverley and the minstrel girl

in "The Fair Maid of Perth," not the Duchesse de Langeais, were his heroines. But better than anything that

ever got from the heart of a man into printer's ink, he loved the poetry of Robert Burns. "Death and Dr.

Hornbook" and "The Jolly Beg gars," Burns's "Reply to his Tailor," he often read aloud to himself in his

office, late at night, after a glass of hot toddy. He used to read "Tam o'Shanter" to Thea Kronborg, and he got

her some of the songs, set to the old airs for which they were written. He loved to hear her sing them. Some

times when she sang, "Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast," the doctor and even Mr. Kronborg joined in. Thea

never minded if people could not sing; she directed them with her head and somehow carried them along.

At the beginning of June, when school closed, Thea had told Wunsch that she didn't know how much prac

ticing she could get in this summer because Thor had his worst teeth still to cut.

"I know, but it takes them two years, and Thor is slow," Thea answered reprovingly.

The summer went well beyond her hopes, however. She told herself that it was the best summer of her life, so

far. Nobody was sick at home, and her lessons were uninter rupted. Now that she had four pupils of her own

and made a dollar a week, her practicing was regarded more seriously by the household. Her mother had

always arranged things so that she could have the parlor four hours a day in sum mer. Thor proved a

friendly ally. He behaved handsomely about his molars, and never objected to being pulled off into remote

places in his cart. When Thea dragged him over the hill and made a camp under the shade of a bush or a

bank, he would waddle about and play with his blocks, or bury his monkey in the sand and dig him up again.

Sometimes he got into the cactus and set up a howl, but usually he let his sister read peacefully, while he

Life was pleasant and uneventful until the first of Sep tember, when Wunsch began to drink so hard that he

was unable to appear when Thea went to take her midweek lesson, and Mrs. Kohler had to send her home

after a tear ful apology. On Saturday morning she set out for the Kohlers' again, but on her way, when she

was crossing the ravine, she noticed a woman sitting at the bottom of the gulch, under the railroad trestle. She

turned from her path and saw that it was Mrs. Tellamantez, and she seemed to be doing drawnwork. Then

Thea noticed that there was something beside her, covered up with a purple and yellow Mexican blanket. She

ran up the gulch and called to Mrs. Tellamantez. The Mexican woman held up a warning finger. Thea

glanced at the blanket and recognized a square red hand which protruded. The middle finger twitched

Mrs. Tellamantez shook her head. "No; very sick. He knows nothing," she said quietly, folding her hands

Thea learned that Wunsch had been out all night, that this morning Mrs. Kohler had gone to look for him and

found him under the trestle covered with dirt and cinders. Probably he had been trying to get home and had

lost his way. Mrs. Tellamantez was watching beside the uncon scious man while Mrs. Kohler and Johnny

"You better go home now, I think," said Mrs. Tella mantez, in closing her narration.

"Couldn't I just stay till they come?" she asked. "I'd like to know if he's very bad."

Thea sat down under the narrow shade of one of the trestle posts and listened to the locusts rasping in the hot

sand while she watched Mrs. Tellamantez evenly draw her threads. The blanket looked as if it were over a

It seemed to Thea that they waited for hours. At last they heard voices, and a party of men came down the hill

and up the gulch. Dr. Archie and Fritz Kohler came first; behind were Johnny and Ray, and several men from

the roundhouse. Ray had the canvas litter that was kept at the depot for accidents on the road. Behind them

When Ray saw Thea, he dropped his canvas roll and hurried forward. "Better run along home, Thee. This is

ugly business." Ray was indignant that anybody who gave Thea music lessons should behave in such a

Thea resented both his proprietary tone and his superior virtue. "I won't. I want to know how bad he is. I'm

Dr. Archie, who had been kneeling by the blanket, got up and came toward Thea, dusting his knees. He

smiled and nodded confidentially. "He'll be all right when we get him home. But he wouldn't want you to see

Thea ran down the gulch and looked back only once, to see them lifting the canvas litter with Wunsch upon

The men carried Wunsch up the hill and down the road to the Kohlers'. Mrs. Kohler had gone home and made

up a bed in the sittingroom, as she knew the litter could not be got round the turn in the narrow stairway.

Wunsch was like a dead man. He lay unconscious all day. Ray Ken nedy stayed with him till two o'clock in

the afternoon, when he had to go out on his run. It was the first time he had ever been inside the Kohlers'

house, and he was so much impressed by Napoleon that the piecepicture formed a new bond between him

Dr. Archie went back at six o'clock, and found Mrs. Kohler and Spanish Johnny with Wunsch, who was in a

"There ought to be some one here to look after him tonight, Mrs. Kohler," he said. "I'm on a confinement

Mrs. Kohler insisted that she could always do anything with Wunsch, but the doctor shook his head and

Spanish Johnny grinned. He said he would stay. The doctor laughed at him. "Ten fellows like you couldn't

hold him, Spanish, if he got obstreperous; an Irishman would have his hands full. Guess I'd better put the soft

Spanish Johnny stayed, however, and the Kohlers went to bed. At about two o'clock in the morning Wunsch

rose from his ignominious cot. Johnny, who was dozing on the lounge, awoke to find the German standing in

the middle of the room in his undershirt and drawers, his arms bare, his heavy body seeming twice its natural

girth. His face was snarling and savage, and his eyes were crazy. He had risen to avenge himself, to wipe out

his shame, to destroy his enemy. One look was enough for Johnny. Wunsch raised a chair threateningly, and

Johnny, with the lightness of a PICADOR, darted under the missile and out of the open win dow. He shot

Fritz, upstairs, heard the chair crash upon the stove. Then he heard doors opening and shutting, and some one

stumbling about in the shrubbery of the garden. He and Paulina sat up in bed and held a consultation. Fritz

slipped from under the covers, and going cautiously over to the window, poked out his head. Then he rushed

"The dresser," cried Mrs. Kohler; "push the dresser before the door. ACH, if you had your rabbit gun, now!"

"It is in the barn," said Fritz sadly. "It would do no good; he would not be afraid of anything now. Stay you in

the bed, Paulina." The dresser had lost its casters years ago, but he managed to drag it in front of the door.

Fritz went back to bed and his wife pulled the quilt over him and made him lie down. They heard stumbling

"ACH, DAS MISTBEET!" gasped Paulina, hearing her hot bed shivered. "The poor soul, Fritz, he will cut

himself. ACH! what is that?" They both sat up in bed. "WIEDER! ACH, What is he doing?"

The noise came steadily, a sound of chopping. Paulina tore off her nightcap. DIE BAUME, DIE BAUME!

He is cut ting our trees, Fritz!" Before her husband could prevent her, she had sprung from the bed and

Fritz reached her side before she had got her breath again, and poked his head out beside hers. There, in the

faint starlight, they saw a bulky man, barefoot, half dressed, chopping away at the white post that formed the

pedestal of the dovehouse. The startled pigeons were croaking and flying about his head, even beating their

wings in his face, so that he struck at them furiously with the axe. In a few seconds there was a crash, and

"Oh, if only it is not the trees next!" prayed Paulina. "The dovehouse you can make new again, but not DIE

They watched breathlessly. In the garden below Wunsch stood in the attitude of a woodman, contemplating

the fallen cote. Suddenly he threw the axe over his shoulder and went out of the front gate toward the town.

"The poor soul, he will meet his death!" Mrs. Kohler wailed. She ran back to her feather bed and hid her face

Fritz kept watch at the window. "No, no, Paulina," he called presently; "I see lanterns coming. Johnny must

have gone for somebody. Yes, four lanterns, coming along the gulch. They stop; they must have seen him

already. Now they are under the hill and I cannot see them, but I think they have him. They will bring him

back. I must dress and go down." He caught his trousers and began pulling them on by the window. "Yes,

"ACH, the poor man! To be led like a cow," groaned Mrs. Kohler. "Oh, it is good that he has no wife!" She

was reproaching herself for nagging Fritz when he drank himself into foolish pleasantry or mild sulks, and

Wunsch was in bed for ten days, during which time he was gossiped about and even preached about in

Moonstone. The Baptist preacher took a shot at the fallen man from his pulpit, Mrs. Livery Johnson nodding

approvingly from her pew. The mothers of Wunsch's pupils sent him notes informing him that their daughters

would discontinue their musiclessons. The old maid who had rented him her piano sent the town dray for

her contaminated instrument, and ever afterward declared that Wunsch had ruined its tone and scarred its

glossy finish. The Kohlers were unre mitting in their kindness to their friend. Mrs. Kohler made him soups

and broths without stint, and Fritz repaired the dovehouse and mounted it on a new post, lest it might be a

As soon as Wunsch was strong enough to sit about in his slippers and wadded jacket, he told Fritz to bring

him some stout thread from the shop. When Fritz asked what he was going to sew, he produced the tattered

score of "Orpheus" and said he would like to fix it up for a little present. Fritz carried it over to the shop and

stitched it into pasteboards, covered with dark suitingcloth. Over the stitches he glued a strip of thin red

leather which he got from his friend, the harnessmaker. After Paulina had cleaned the pages with fresh

bread, Wunsch was amazed to see what a fine book he had. It opened stiffly, but that was no matter.

Sitting in the arbor one morning, under the ripe grapes and the brown, curling leaves, with a pen and ink on

the bench beside him and the Gluck score on his knee, Wunsch pondered for a long while. Several times he

dipped the pen in the ink, and then put it back again in the cigar box in which Mrs. Kohler kept her writing

utensils. His thoughts wandered over a wide territory; over many countries and many years. There was no

order or logical sequence in his ideas. Pictures came and went without reason. Faces, mountains, rivers,

autumn days in other vineyards far away. He thought of a FUSZREISE he had made through the Hartz

Mountains in his student days; of the innkeeper's pretty daughter who had lighted his pipe for him in the

garden one summer evening, of the woods above Wiesba den, haymakers on an island in the river. The

round house whistle woke him from his reveries. Ah, yes, he was in Moonstone, Colorado. He frowned for

a moment and looked at the book on his knee. He had thought of a great many appropriate things to write in

it, but suddenly he rejected all of them, opened the book, and at the top of the muchengraved titlepage he

Nobody in Moonstone ever found what Wunsch's first name was. That "A" may have stood for Adam, or

August, or even Amadeus; he got very angry if any one asked him. He remained A. Wunsch to the end of his

chapter there. When he presented this score to Thea, he told her that in ten years she would either know what

the inscription meant, or she would not have the least idea, in which case it would not matter.

When Wunsch began to pack his trunk, both the Kohlers were very unhappy. He said he was coming back

some day, but that for the present, since he had lost all his pupils, it would be better for him to try some "new

town." Mrs. Kohler darned and mended all his clothes, and gave him two new shirts she had made for Fritz.

Fritz made him a new pair of trousers and would have made him an overcoat but for the fact that overcoats

Wunsch would not go across the ravine to the town until he went to take the morning train for Denver. He

said that after he got to Denver he would "look around." He left Moonstone one bright October morning,

without telling any one goodbye. He bought his ticket and went directly into the smokingcar. When the

train was beginning to pull out, he heard his name called frantically, and looking out of the window he saw

Thea Kronborg standing on the siding, bareheaded and panting. Some boys had brought word to school that

they saw Wunsch's trunk going over to the station, and Thea had run away from school. She was at the end of

the station platform, her hair in two braids, her blue gingham dress wet to the knees because she had run

across lots through the weeds. It had rained dur ing the night, and the tall sunflowers behind her were fresh

He thrust his head out at the car window and called back, "LEBEN SIE WOHL, LEBEN SIE WOHL, MEIN

KIND!" He watched her until the train swept around the curve be yond the roundhouse, and then sank back

into his seat, muttering, "She had been running. Ah, she will run a long way; they cannot stop her!"

What was it about the child that one believed in? Was it her dogged industry, so unusual in this

freeandeasy country? Was it her imagination? More likely it was be cause she had both imagination and a

stubborn will, curi ously balancing and interpenetrating each other. There was something unconscious and

unawakened about her, that tempted curiosity. She had a kind of seriousness that he had not met with in a

pupil before. She hated difficult things, and yet she could never pass one by. They seemed to challenge her;

she had no peace until she mastered them. She had the power to make a great effort, to lift a weight heavier

than herself. Wunsch hoped he would always remember her as she stood by the track, looking up at him; her

broad eager face, so fair in color, with its high cheekbones, yellow eyebrows and greenish hazel eyes. It

was a face full of light and energy, of the unquestioning hopefulness of first youth. Yes, she was like a flower

full of sun, but not the soft German flowers of his childhood. He had it now, the comparison he had ab

sently reached for before: she was like the yellow prickly pear blossoms that open there in the desert;

thornier and sturdier than the maiden flowers he remembered; not so sweet, but wonderful.

That night Mrs. Kohler brushed away many a tear as she got supper and set the table for two. When they sat

down, Fritz was more silent than usual. People who have lived long together need a third at table: they know

each other's thoughts so well that they have nothing left to say. Mrs. Kohler stirred and stirred her coffee and

clattered the spoon, but she had no heart for her supper. She felt, for the first time in years, that she was tired

of her own cook ing. She looked across the glass lamp at her husband and asked him if the butcher liked his

new overcoat, and whether he had got the shoulders right in a readymade suit he was patching over for Ray

Kennedy. After sup per Fritz offered to wipe the dishes for her, but she told him to go about his business,

When her work in the kitchen was all done, she went out to cover the oleanders against frost, and to take a

last look at her chickens. As she came back from the henhouse she stopped by one of the linden trees and

stood resting her hand on the trunk. He would never come back, the poor man; she knew that. He would drift

on from new town to new town, from catastrophe to catastrophe. He would hardly find a good home for

himself again. He would die at last in some rough place, and be buried in the desert or on the wild prairie, far

Fritz, smoking his pipe on the kitchen doorstep, watched his Paulina and guessed her thoughts. He, too, was

sorry to lose his friend. But Fritz was getting old; he had lived a long while and had learned to lose without

"Mother," said Peter Kronborg to his wife one morn ing about two weeks after Wunsch's departure, "how

Mrs. Kronborg said she thought she would enjoy the drive. She put on her gray cashmere dress and gold

watch and chain, as befitted a minister's wife, and while her husband was dressing she packed a black oilcloth

Copper Hole was a settlement fifteen miles northwest of Moonstone where Mr. Kronborg preached every

Friday evening. There was a big spring there and a creek and a few irrigating ditches. It was a community of

discour aged agriculturists who had disastrously experimented with dry farming. Mr. Kronborg always

drove out one day and back the next, spending the night with one of his parishioners. Often, when the

weather was fine, his wife accompanied him. Today they set out from home after the midday meal, leaving

Tillie in charge of the house. Mrs. Kronborg's maternal feeling was always gar nered up in the baby,

whoever the baby happened to be. If she had the baby with her, the others could look out for themselves.

Thor, of course, was not, accurately speaking, a baby any longer. In the matter of nourishment he was quite

independent of his mother, though this independence had not been won without a struggle. Thor was

conserva tive in all things, and the whole family had anguished with him when he was being weaned. Being

the youngest, he was still the baby for Mrs. Kronborg, though he was nearly four years old and sat up boldly

on her lap this afternoon, holding on to the ends of the lines and shouting "`mup, 'mup, horsey." His father

watched him affectionately and hummed hymn tunes in the jovial way that was sometimes such a trial to

Mrs. Kronborg was enjoying the sunshine and the bril liant sky and all the faintly marked features of the

dazzling, monotonous landscape. She had a rather unusual capacity for getting the flavor of places and of

people. Although she was so enmeshed in family cares most of the time, she could emerge serene when she

was away from them. For a mother of seven, she had a singularly unprejudiced point of view. She was,

moreover, a fatalist, and as she did not attempt to direct things beyond her control, she found a good deal of

When they were well upon their road, out where the first lean pasture lands began and the sand grass made a

faint showing between the sagebushes, Mr. Kronborg dropped his tune and turned to his wife. "Mother, I've

"I guessed you had. What is it?" She shifted Thor to her left knee, where he would be more out of the way.

"Well, it's about Thea. Mr. Follansbee came to my study at the church the other day and said they would like

to have their two girls take lessons of Thea. Then I sounded Miss Meyers" (Miss Meyers was the organist in

Mr. Kronborg's church) "and she said there was a good deal of talk about whether Thea wouldn't take over

Wunsch's pupils. She said if Thea stopped school she wouldn't wonder if she could get pretty much all

Mrs. Kronborg looked thoughtful. "Do you think we ought to take her out of school so young?"

"She is young, but next year would be her last year any way. She's far along for her age. And she can't learn

"No, I'm afraid she can't," his wife admitted. "She frets a good deal and says that man always has to look in

the back of the book for the answers. She hates all that diagramming they have to do, and I think myself it's a

Mr. Kronborg settled himself back into the seat and slowed the mare to a walk. "You see, it occurs to me that

we might raise Thea's prices, so it would be worth her while. Seventyfive cents for hour lessons, fifty cents

for halfhour lessons. If she got, say two thirds of Wunsch's class, that would bring her in upwards of ten

dollars a week. Better pay than teaching a country school, and there would be more work in vacation than in

winter. Steady work twelve months in the year; that's an advan tage. And she'd be living at home, with no

"At first there would. But Thea is so much the best musician in town that they'd all come into line after a

while. A good many people in Moonstone have been making money lately, and have bought new pianos.

There were ten new pianos shipped in here from Denver in the last year. People ain't going to let them stand

idle; too much money invested. I believe Thea can have as many scholars as she can handle, if we set her up a

"How set her up, do you mean?" Mrs. Kronborg felt a certain reluctance about accepting this plan, though she

"Well, I've been thinking for some time we could make good use of another room. We couldn't give up the

parlor to her all the time. If we built another room on the ell and put the piano in there, she could give lessons

all day long and it wouldn't bother us. We could build a clothespress in it, and put in a bedlounge and a

dresser and let Anna have it for her sleepingroom. She needs a place of her own, now that she's beginning to

"Seems like Thea ought to have the choice of the room, herself," said Mrs. Kronborg.

"But, my dear, she don't want it. Won't have it. I sounded her coming home from church on Sunday; asked

her if she would like to sleep in a new room, if we built on. She fired up like a little wildcat and said she'd

made her own room all herself, and she didn't think anybody ought to take it away from her."

"She don't mean to be impertinent, father. She's made decided that way, like my father." Mrs. Kronborg

spoke warmly. "I never have any trouble with the child. I remember my father's ways and go at her carefully.

Mr. Kronborg laughed indulgently and pinched Thor's full cheek. "Oh, I didn't mean anything against your

girl, mother! She's all right, but she's a little wildcat, just the same. I think Ray Kennedy's planning to spoil

"Huh! She'll get something a good sight better than Ray Kennedy, you see! Thea's an awful smart girl. I've

seen a good many girls take music lessons in my time, but I ain't seen one that took to it so. Wunsch said so,

"I don't deny that, and the sooner she gets at it in a businesslike way, the better. She's the kind that takes

Mrs. Kronborg was thoughtful. "In some ways it will, maybe. But there's a good deal of strain about teaching

youngsters, and she's always worked so hard with the scholars she has. I've often listened to her pounding it

into 'em. I don't want to work her too hard. She's so serious that she's never had what you might call any real

childhood. Seems like she ought to have the next few years sort of free and easy. She'll be tied down with re

Mr. Kronborg patted his wife's arm. "Don't you believe it, mother. Thea is not the marrying kind. I've

watched 'em. Anna will marry before long and make a good wife, but I don't see Thea bringing up a family.

She's got a good deal of her mother in her, but she hasn't got all. She's too peppery and too fond of having her

own way. Then she's always got to be ahead in everything. That kind make good churchworkers and

missionaries and school teachers, but they don't make good wives. They fret all their energy away, like colts,

Mrs. Kronborg laughed. "Give me the graham crackers I put in your pocket for Thor. He's hungry. You're a

funny man, Peter. A body wouldn't think, to hear you, you was talking about your own daughters. I guess you

see through 'em. Still, even if Thea ain't apt to have children of her own, I don't know as that's a good reason

"That's just the point, mother. A girl with all that energy has got to do something, same as a boy, to keep her

out of mischief. If you don't want her to marry Ray, let her do something to make herself independent."

"Well, I'm not against it. It might be the best thing for her. I wish I felt sure she wouldn't worry. She takes

things hard. She nearly cried herself sick about Wunsch's going away. She's the smartest child of 'em all,

Peter Kronborg smiled. "There you go, Anna. That's you all over again. Now, I have no favorites; they all

have their good points. But you," with a twinkle, "always did go in for brains."

Mrs. Kronborg chuckled as she wiped the cracker crumbs from Thor's chin and fists. "Well, you're mighty

conceited, Peter! But I don't know as I ever regretted it. I prefer having a family of my own to fussing with

Before the Kronborgs reached Copper Hole, Thea's des tiny was pretty well mapped out for her. Mr.

Mrs. Kronborg was quite right in her conjecture that there would be unfriendly comment in Moonstone when

Thea raised her prices for musiclessons. People said she was getting too conceited for anything. Mrs. Livery

John son put on a new bonnet and paid up all her back calls to have the pleasure of announcing in each

parlor she entered that her daughters, at least, would "never pay professional prices to Thea Kronborg."

Thea raised no objection to quitting school. She was now in the "high room," as it was called, in next to the

highest class, and was studying geometry and beginning Caesar. She no longer recited her lessons to the

teacher she liked, but to the Principal, a man who belonged, like Mrs. Livery Johnson, to the camp of Thea's

natural enemies. He taught school because he was too lazy to work among grownup people, and he made an

easy job of it. He got out of real work by inventing useless activities for his pupils, such as the

"treediagramming system." Thea had spent hours making trees out of "Thanatopsis," Hamlet's soliloquy,

Cato on "Immortality." She agonized under this waste of time, and was only too glad to accept her father's

So Thea left school the first of November. By the first of January she had eight onehour pupils and ten

halfhour pupils, and there would be more in the sum mer. She spent her earnings generously. She bought a

new Brussels carpet for the parlor, and a rifle for Gunner and Axel, and an imitation tigerskin coat and cap

for Thor. She enjoyed being able to add to the family posses sions, and thought Thor looked quite as

handsome in his spots as the rich children she had seen in Denver. Thor was most complacent in his

conspicuous apparel. He could walk anywhere by this timethough he always preferred to sit, or to be

pulled in his cart. He was a blissfully lazy child, and had a number of long, dull plays, such as mak ing nests

for his china duck and waiting for her to lay him an egg. Thea thought him very intelligent, and she was

proud that he was so big and burly. She found him restful, loved to hear him call her "sitter," and really liked

his companionship, especially when she was tired. On Sat urday, for instance, when she taught from nine in

the morning until five in the afternoon, she liked to get off in a corner with Thor after supper, away from all

the bathing and dressing and joking and talking that went on in the house, and ask him about his duck, or hear

By the time Thea's fifteenth birthday came round, she was established as a music teacher in Moonstone. The

new room had been added to the house early in the spring, and Thea had been giving her lessons there since

the middle of May. She liked the personal independence which was accorded her as a wageearner. The

family ques tioned her comings and goings very little. She could go buggyriding with Ray Kennedy, for

instance, without tak ing Gunner or Axel. She could go to Spanish Johnny's and sing part songs with the

Thea was still under the first excitement of teaching, and was terribly in earnest about it. If a pupil did not get

on well, she fumed and fretted. She counted until she was hoarse. She listened to scales in her sleep. Wunsch

had taught only one pupil seriously, but Thea taught twenty. The duller they were, the more furiously she

poked and prodded them. With the little girls she was nearly always patient, but with pupils older than

herself, she sometimes lost her temper. One of her mistakes was to let herself in for a callingdown from

Mrs. Livery Johnson. That lady appeared at the Kronborgs' one morning and announced that she would allow

no girl to stamp her foot at her daugh ter Grace. She added that Thea's bad manners with the older girls were

being talked about all over town, and that if her temper did not speedily improve she would lose all her

advanced pupils. Thea was frightened. She felt she could never bear the disgrace, if such a thing happened.

Besides, what would her father say, after he had gone to the expense of building an addition to the house?

Mrs. Johnson demanded an apology to Grace. Thea said she was willing to make it. Mrs. Johnson said that

hereafter, since she had taken lessons of the best piano teacher in Grinnell, Iowa, she herself would decide

what pieces Grace should study. Thea readily consented to that, and Mrs. Johnson rustled away to tell a

neighbor woman that Thea Kronborg could be meek enough when you went at her right.

Thea was telling Ray about this unpleasant encounter as they were driving out to the sand hills the next

"She was stuffing you, all right, Thee," Ray reassured her. "There's no general dissatisfaction among your

schol ars. She just wanted to get in a knock. I talked to the piano tuner the last time he was here, and he said

all the people he tuned for expressed themselves very favorably about your teaching. I wish you didn't take so

"But I have to, Ray. They're all so dumb. They've got no ambition," Thea exclaimed irritably. "Jenny Smiley

is the only one who isn't stupid. She can read pretty well, and she has such good hands. But she don't care a

Ray's face was full of complacent satisfaction as he glanced sidewise at Thea, but she was looking off

intently into the mirage, at one of those mammoth cattle that are nearly always reflected there. "Do you find it

"Yes; I'm not interrupted so much. Of course, if I ever happen to want to practice at night, that's always the

"It's a darned shame, Thee, you didn't cop that room for yourself. I'm sore at the PADRE about that. He ought

"I didn't want it, honest I didn't. Father would have let me have it. I like my own room better. Somehow I can

think better in a little room. Besides, up there I am away from everybody, and I can read as late as I please

Thea moved restlessly on the buggy cushions. "They need other things more," she muttered. "Oh, I forgot. I

brought something to show you. Look here, it came on my birthday. Wasn't it nice of him to remember?" She

took from her pocket a postcard, bent in the middle and folded, and handed it to Ray. On it was a white dove,

perched on a wreath of very blue forgetmenots, and "Birthday Greetings" in gold letters. Under this was

"It's the jumpingoff place, no town at all. Some houses dumped down in the middle of a cornfield. You get

lost in the corn. Not even a saloon to keep things going; sell whis key without a license at the butcher shop,

beer on ice with the liver and beefsteak. I wouldn't stay there over Sunday for a tendollar bill."

"Oh, dear! What do you suppose he's doing there? Maybe he just stopped off there a few days to tune

Ray gave her back the card. "He's headed in the wrong direction. What does he want to get back into a grass

country for? Now, there are lots of good live towns down on the Santa Fe, and everybody down there is

musical. He could always get a job playing in saloons if he was dead broke. I've figured out that I've got no

"We must stop on our way back and show this card to Mrs. Kohler. She misses him so."

"By the way, Thee, I hear the old woman goes to church every Sunday to hear you sing. Fritz tells me he has

to wait till two o'clock for his Sunday dinner these days. The church people ought to give you credit for that,

Thea shook her head and spoke in a tone of resignation. "They'll always go for me, just as they did for

Wunsch. It wasn't because he drank they went for him; not really. It was something else."

"You want to salt your money down, Thee, and go to Chicago and take some lessons. Then you come back,

and wear a long feather and high heels and put on a few airs, and that'll fix 'em. That's what they like."

"I'll never have money enough to go to Chicago. Mother meant to lend me some, I think, but now they've got

hard times back in Nebraska, and her farm don't bring her in anything. Takes all the tenant can raise to pay

the taxes. Don't let's talk about that. You promised to tell me about the play you went to see in Denver."

Any one would have liked to hear Ray's simple and clear account of the performance he had seen at the Tabor

Grand Opera HouseMaggie Mitchell in LITTLE BAREFOOTand any one would have liked to watch

his kind face. Ray looked his best out of doors, when his thick red hands were covered by gloves, and the dull

red of his sunburned face somehow seemed right in the light and wind. He looked better, too, with his hat on;

his hair was thin and dry, with no particular color or character, "regular Willyboy hair," as he himself

described it. His eyes were pale beside the reddish bronze of his skin. They had the faded look often seen in

the eyes of men who have lived much in the sun and wind and who have been accustomed to train their vision

Ray realized that Thea's life was dull and exacting, and that she missed Wunsch. He knew she worked hard,

that she put up with a great many little annoyances, and that her duties as a teacher separated her more than

ever from the boys and girls of her own age. He did everything he could to provide recreation for her. He

brought her candy and magazines and pineapplesof which she was very fond from Denver, and kept his

eyes and ears open for any thing that might interest her. He was, of course, living for Thea. He had thought

it all out carefully and had made up his mind just when he would speak to her. When she was seventeen, then

he would tell her his plan and ask her to marry him. He would be willing to wait two, or even three years,

until she was twenty, if she thought best. By that time he would surely have got in on something: cop per,

Meanwhile, it was pleasure enough to feel that she de pended on him more and more, that she leaned upon

his steady kindness. He never broke faith with himself about her; he never hinted to her of his hopes for the

future, never suggested that she might be more intimately con fidential with him, or talked to her of the

thing he thought about so constantly. He had the chivalry which is per haps the proudest possession of his

race. He had never embarrassed her by so much as a glance. Sometimes, when they drove out to the sand

hills, he let his left arm lie along the back of the buggy seat, but it never came any nearer to Thea than that,

never touched her. He often turned to her a face full of pride, and frank admiration, but his glance was never

so intimate or so penetrating as Dr. Archie's. His blue eyes were clear and shallow, friendly, uninquiring. He

rested Thea because he was so different; because, though he often told her interesting things, he never set

lively fancies going in her head; because he never misunderstood her, and because he never, by any chance,

for a single instant, understood her! Yes, with Ray she was safe; by him she would never be discovered!

The pleasantest experience Thea had that summer was a trip that she and her mother made to Denver in Ray

Kennedy's caboose. Mrs. Kronborg had been look ing forward to this excursion for a long while, but as Ray

never knew at what hour his freight would leave Moon stone, it was difficult to arrange. The callboy was

as likely to summon him to start on his run at twelve o'clock mid night as at twelve o'clock noon. The first

week in June started out with all the scheduled trains running on time, and a light freight business. Tuesday

evening Ray, after consulting with the dispatcher, stopped at the Kronborgs' front gate to tell Mrs.

Kronborgwho was helping Tillie water the flowersthat if she and Thea could be at the depot at eight

o'clock the next morning, he thought he could promise them a pleasant ride and get them into Denver before

nine o'clock in the evening. Mrs. Kronborg told him cheerfully, across the fence, that she would "take him up

The one complaint Ray's brakemen had to make of him was that he was too fussy about his caboose. His

former brakeman had asked to be transferred because, he said, "Kennedy was as fussy about his car as an old

maid about her birdcage." Joe Giddy, who was braking with Ray now, called him "the bride," because he

It was properly the brakeman's business to keep the car clean, but when Ray got back to the depot, Giddy was

nowhere to be found. Muttering that all his brakemen seemed to consider him "easy," Ray went down to his

car alone. He built a fire in the stove and put water on to heat while he got into his overalls and jumper. Then

he set to work with a scrubbingbrush and plenty of soap and "cleaner." He scrubbed the floor and seats,

blacked the stove, put clean sheets on the bunks, and then began to demolish Giddy's picture gallery. Ray

found that his brakemen were likely to have what he termed "a taste for the nude in art," and Giddy was no

exception. Ray took down half a dozen girls in tights and ballet skirts,pre miums for cigarette

coupons,and some racy calendars advertising saloons and sporting clubs, which had cost Giddy both time

and trouble; he even removed Giddy's particular pet, a naked girl lying on a couch with her knee carelessly

poised in the air. Underneath the picture was printed the title, "The Odalisque." Giddy was under the happy

delusion that this title meant something wicked, there was a wicked look about the consonants,but Ray,

of course, had looked it up, and Giddy was indebted to the dictionary for the privilege of keeping his lady. If

"oda lisque" had been what Ray called an objectionable word, he would have thrown the picture out in the

first place. Ray even took down a picture of Mrs. Langtry in evening dress, because it was entitled the "Jersey

Lily," and be cause there was a small head of Edward VII, then Prince of Wales, in one corner. Albert

Edward's conduct was a popular subject of discussion among railroad men in those days, and as Ray pulled

the tacks out of this lithograph he felt more indignant with the English than ever. He de posited all these

pictures under the mattress of Giddy's bunk, and stood admiring his clean car in the lamplight; the walls now

exhibited only a wheatfield, advertising agri cultural implements, a map of Colorado, and some pictures of

racehorses and huntingdogs. At this moment Giddy, freshly shaved and shampooed, his shirt shining with

the highest polish known to Chinese laundrymen, his straw hat tipped over his right eye, thrust his head in at

"What in hell" he brought out furiously. His good humored, sunburned face seemed fairly to swell with

"That's all right, Giddy," Ray called in a conciliatory tone. "Nothing injured. I'll put 'em all up again as I

Giddy scowled. He did not dispute the propriety of Ray's measures, if there were to be ladies on board, but he

felt injured. "I suppose you'll expect me to behave like a Y.M.C.A. secretary," he growled. "I can't do my

"No need to have a teaparty," said Ray with deter mined cheerfulness. "Mrs. Kronborg will bring the

Giddy lounged against the car, holding his cigar between two thick fingers. "Then I guess she'll get it," he

observed knowingly. "I don't think your musical friend is much on the grubbox. Has to keep her hands

white to tickle the ivories." Giddy had nothing against Thea, but he felt cantankerous and wanted to get a rise

"Every man to his own job," Ray replied agreeably, pulling his white shirt on over his head.

Giddy emitted smoke disdainfully. "I suppose so. The man that gets her will have to wear an apron and bake

the pancakes. Well, some men like to mess about the kitchen." He paused, but Ray was intent on getting into

his clothes as quickly as possible. Giddy thought he could go a little further. "Of course, I don't dispute your

right to haul women in this car if you want to; but personally, so far as I'm concerned, I'd a good deal rather

drink a can of toma toes and do without the women AND their lunch. I was never much enslaved to

"You'll eat 'em tomorrow, all the same." Ray's tone had a steely glitter as he jumped out of the car, and

Giddy stood aside to let him pass. He knew that Kennedy's next reply would be delivered by hand. He had

once seen Ray beat up a nasty fellow for insulting a Mexican woman who helped about the grubcar in the

work train, and his fists had worked like two steel hammers. Giddy wasn't looking for trouble.

At eight o'clock the next morning Ray greeted his ladies and helped them into the car. Giddy had put on a

clean shirt and yellow pigskin gloves and was whistling his best. He considered Kennedy a fluke as a ladies'

man, and if there was to be a party, the honors had to be done by some one who wasn't a blacksmith at

smalltalk. Giddy had, as Ray sarcastically admitted, "a local repu tation as a jollier," and he was fluent in

gallant speeches of a not tooveiled nature. He insisted that Thea should take his seat in the cupola, opposite

Ray's, where she could look out over the country. Thea told him, as she clambered up, that she cared a good

deal more about riding in that seat than about going to Denver. Ray was never so companionable and easy as

when he sat chatting in the lookout of his little house on wheels. Good stories came to him, and interesting

recollections. Thea had a great respect for the reports he had to write out, and for the telegrams that were

handed to him at stations; for all the knowledge and experience it must take to run a freight train.

Giddy, down in the car, in the pauses of his work, made himself agreeable to Mrs. Kronborg.

"It's a great rest to be where my family can't get at me, Mr. Giddy," she told him. "I thought you and Ray

might have some housework here for me to look after, but I couldn't improve any on this car."

"Oh, we like to keep her neat," returned Giddy glibly, winking up at Ray's expressive back. "If you want to

see a clean icebox, look at this one. Yes, Kennedy always carries fresh cream to eat on his oatmeal. I'm not

"Most of you boys smoke so much that all victuals taste alike to you," said Mrs. Kronborg. "I've got no

religious scruples against smoking, but I couldn't take as much interest cooking for a man that used tobacco. I

Mrs. Kronborg took off her hat and veil and made her self comfortable. She seldom had an opportunity to

be idle, and she enjoyed it. She could sit for hours and watch the sagehens fly up and the jackrabbits dart

away from the track, without being bored. She wore a tan bombazine dress, made very plainly, and carried a

Ray Kennedy always insisted that Mrs. Kronborg was "a finelooking lady," but this was not the common

opin ion in Moonstone. Ray had lived long enough among the Mexicans to dislike fussiness, to feel that

there was some thing more attractive in ease of manner than in absent minded concern about hairpins and

dabs of lace. He had learned to think that the way a woman stood, moved, sat in her chair, looked at you, was

more important than the absence of wrinkles from her skirt. Ray had, indeed, such unusual perceptions in

some directions, that one could not help wondering what he would have been if he had ever, as he said, had

He was right; Mrs. Kronborg was a finelooking woman. She was short and square, but her head was a real

head, not a mere jerky termination of the body. It had some individuality apart from hats and hairpins. Her

hair, Moonstone women admitted, would have been very pretty "on anybody else." Frizzy bangs were worn

then, but Mrs. Kronborg always dressed her hair in the same way, parted in the middle, brushed smoothly

back from her low, white forehead, pinned loosely on the back of her head in two thick braids. It was growing

gray about the temples, but after the manner of yellow hair it seemed only to have grown paler there, and had

taken on a color like that of English primroses. Her eyes were clear and untroubled; her face smooth and

Thea and Ray, up in the sunny cupola, were laughing and talking. Ray got great pleasure out of seeing her

face there in the little box where he so often imagined it. They were crossing a plateau where great red

sandstone boulders lay about, most of them much wider at the top than at the base, so that they looked like

"The sand has been blowing against them for a good many hundred years," Ray explained, directing Thea's

eyes with his gloved hand. "You see the sand blows low, being so heavy, and cuts them out underneath. Wind

and sand are pretty highclass architects. That's the principle of most of the CliffDweller remains down at

Canyon de Chelly. The sandstorms had dug out big depressions in the face of a cliff, and the Indians built

"You told me that before, Ray, and of course you know. But the geography says their houses were cut out of

Ray sniffed. "What nonsense does get printed! It's enough to give a man disrespect for learning. How could

them Indians cut houses out of the living rock, when they knew nothing about the art of forging metals?" Ray

leaned back in his chair, swung his foot, and looked thought ful and happy. He was in one of his favorite

fields of specu lation, and nothing gave him more pleasure than talking these things over with Thea

Kronborg. "I'll tell you, Thee, if those old fellows had learned to work metals once, your ancient Egyptians

and Assyrians wouldn't have beat them very much. Whatever they did do, they did well. Their masonry's

standing there today, the corners as true as the Denver Capitol. They were clever at most every thing but

metals; and that one failure kept them from getting across. It was the quicksand that swallowed 'em up, as a

Ray was not vain about his bookish phrases. He did not use them to show off, but because they seemed to

him more adequate than colloquial speech. He felt strongly about these things, and groped for words, as he

said, "to express himself." He had the lamentable American belief that "expression" is obligatory. He still

carried in his trunk, among the unrelated possessions of a railroad man, a note book on the titlepage of

which was written "Impressions on First Viewing the Grand Canyon, Ray H. Kennedy." The pages of that

book were like a battlefield; the laboring author had fallen back from metaphor after metaphor, abandoned

position after position. He would have admit ted that the art of forging metals was nothing to this treach

erous business of recording impressions, in which the material you were so full of vanished mysteriously

under your striving hand. "Escaping steam!" he had said to him self, the last time he tried to read that

Thea didn't mind Ray's travellecture expressions. She dodged them, unconsciously, as she did her father's

pro fessional palaver. The light in Ray's paleblue eyes and the feeling in his voice more than made up for

"Were the CliffDwellers really clever with their hands, Ray, or do you always have to make allowance and

Ray went down into the car to give some instructions to Giddy. "Well," he said when he returned, "about the

aborigines: once or twice I've been with some fellows who were cracking burial mounds. Always felt a little

ashamed of it, but we did pull out some remarkable things. We got some pottery out whole; seemed pretty

fine to me. I guess their women were their artists. We found lots of old shoes and sandals made out of yucca

"Didn't I? The old fellowsor the squawswove a close netting of yucca fiber, and then tied on little

bunches of down feathers, overlapping, just the way feathers grow on a bird. Some of them were feathered on

both sides. You can't get anything warmer than that, now, can you? or prettier. What I like about those old

Thea laughed. "That means you're going to say some thing about girls' wearing corsets. But some of your

"Give me an Indian girl's figure for beauty," Ray in sisted. "And a girl with a voice like yours ought to have

plenty of lungaction. But you know my sentiments on that subject. I was going to tell you about the

handsomest thing we ever looted out of those burial mounds. It was on a woman, too, I regret to say. She was

preserved as perfect as any mummy that ever came out of the pyramids. She had a big string of turquoises

around her neck, and she was wrapped in a foxfur cloak, lined with little yellow feathers that must have

come off wild canaries. Can you beat that, now? The fellow that claimed it sold it to a Boston man for a

Thea looked at him admiringly. "Oh, Ray, and didn't you get anything off her, to remember her by, even? She

Ray took a wallet from the pocket of the coat that was hanging beside him, and drew from it a little lump

wrapped in worn tissue paper. In a moment a stone, soft and blue as a robin's egg, lay in the hard palm of his

hand. It was a turquoise, rubbed smooth in the Indian finish, which is so much more beautiful than the

incongruous high polish the white man gives that tender stone. "I got this from her necklace. See the hole

where the string went through? You know how the Indians drill them? Work the drill with their teeth. You

like it, don't you? They're just right for you. Blue and yellow are the Swedish colors." Ray looked intently at

"I'll tell you, Thee," he began after a pause, "I'm going to form a camping party one of these days and

persuade your PADRE to take you and your mother down to that coun try, and we'll live in the rock

housesthey're as comfort able as can beand start the cook fires up in 'em once again. I'll go into the

burial mounds and get you more keepsakes than any girl ever had before." Ray had planned such an

expedition for his wedding journey, and it made his heart thump to see how Thea's eyes kindled when he

talked about it. "I've learned more down there about what makes history," he went on, "than in all the books

I've ever read. When you sit in the sun and let your heels hang out of a doorway that drops a thousand feet,

ideas come to you. You begin to feel what the human race has been up against from the beginning. There's

something mighty elevating about those old habitations. You feel like it's up to you to do your best, on

account of those fellows having it so hard. You feel like you owed them something."

At Wassiwappa, Ray got instructions to sidetrack until Thirtysix went by. After reading the message, he

turned to his guests. "I'm afraid this will hold us up about two hours, Mrs. Kronborg, and we won't get into

"That won't trouble me," said Mrs. Kronborg content edly. "They know me at the Y.W.C.A., and they'll let

me in any time of night. I came to see the country, not to make time. I've always wanted to get out at this

white place and look around, and now I'll have a chance. What makes it so white?"

"Some kind of chalky rock." Ray sprang to the ground and gave Mrs. Kronborg his hand. "You can get soil of

While Ray was getting his train on to a side track, Mrs. Kronborg strolled off to examine the postoffice and

sta tion house; these, with the water tank, made up the town. The station agent "batched" and raised

chickens. He ran out to meet Mrs. Kronborg, clutched at her feverishly, and began telling her at once how

lonely he was and what bad luck he was having with his poultry. She went to his chicken yard with him, and

Wassiwappa seemed a dreary place enough to people who looked for verdure, a brilliant place to people who

liked color. Beside the station house there was a bluegrass plot, protected by a red plank fence, and six

flybitten boxelder trees, not much larger than bushes, were kept alive by frequent hosings from the water

plug. Over the windows some dusty morningglory vines were trained on strings. All the country about was

broken up into low chalky hills, which were so intensely white, and spotted so evenly with sage, that they

looked like white leopards crouching. White dust powdered everything, and the light was so intense that the

station agent usually wore blue glasses. Behind the station there was a water course, which roared in flood

time, and a basin in the soft white rock where a pool of alkali water flashed in the sun like a mirror. The agent

looked almost as sick as his chickens, and Mrs. Kronborg at once invited him to lunch with her party. He had,

he confessed, a distaste for his own cooking, and lived mainly on soda crackers and canned beef. He laughed

apologetic ally when Mrs. Kronborg said she guessed she'd look about for a shady place to eat lunch.

She walked up the track to the water tank, and there, in the narrow shadows cast by the uprights on which the

tank stood, she found two tramps. They sat up and stared at her, heavy with sleep. When she asked them

where they were going, they told her "to the coast." They rested by day and traveled by night; walked the ties

unless they could steal a ride, they said; adding that "these Western roads were getting strict." Their faces

were blistered, their eyes bloodshot, and their shoes looked fit only for the trash pile.

"I suppose you're hungry?" Mrs. Kronborg asked. "I suppose you both drink?" she went on thoughtfully, not

The huskier of the two hoboes, a bushy, bearded fellow, rolled his eyes and said, "I wonder?" But the other,

who was old and spare, with a sharp nose and watery eyes, sighed. "Some has one affliction, some another,"

Mrs. Kronborg reflected. "Well," she said at last, "you can't get liquor here, anyway. I am going to ask you to

vacate, because I want to have a little picnic under this tank for the freight crew that brought me along. I wish

I had lunch enough to provide you, but I ain't. The station agent says he gets his provisions over there at the

post office store, and if you are hungry you can get some canned stuff there." She opened her handbag and

The old man wiped his eyes with his forefinger. "Thank 'ee, ma'am. A can of tomatters will taste pretty good

The hairy tramp turned on him fiercely. "Aw, shut up on that, grandpaw! Ain't you got no gratitude? What do

The old man hung his head and turned away. As he went off, his comrade looked after him and said to Mrs.

Kronborg: "It's true, what he says. He had a job in the car shops; but he had bad luck." They both limped

away toward the store, and Mrs. Kronborg sighed. She was not afraid of tramps. She always talked to them,

and never turned one away. She hated to think how many of them there were, crawling along the tracks over

Her reflections were cut short by Ray and Giddy and Thea, who came bringing the lunch box and water

bottles. Although there was not shadow enough to accommodate all the party at once, the air under the tank

was distinctly cooler than the surrounding air, and the drip made a pleas ant sound in that breathless noon.

The station agent ate as if he had never been fed before, apologizing every time he took another piece of fried

chicken. Giddy was una bashed before the devilled eggs of which he had spoken so scornfully last night.

After lunch the men lit their pipes and lay back against the uprights that supported the tank.

"You fellows grumble too much," said Mrs. Kronborg as she corked the pickle jar. "Your job has its

drawbacks, but it don't tie you down. Of course there's the risk; but I believe a man's watched over, and he

can't be hurt on the railroad or anywhere else if it's intended he shouldn't be."

Giddy laughed. "Then the trains must be operated by fellows the Lord has it in for, Mrs. Kronborg. They

figure it out that a railroad man's only due to last eleven years; then it's his turn to be smashed."

"That's a dark Providence, I don't deny," Mrs. Kron borg admitted. "But there's lots of things in life that's

Ray smoked in silence, watching Thea and her mother clear away the lunch. He was thinking that Mrs.

Kron borg had in her face the same serious look that Thea had; only hers was calm and satisfied, and Thea's

was intense and questioning. But in both it was a large kind of look, that was not all the time being broken up

and convulsed by trivial things. They both carried their heads like Indian women, with a kind of noble

unconsciousness. He got so tired of women who were always nodding and jerking; apologizing, deprecating,

When Ray's party set off again that afternoon the sun beat fiercely into the cupola, and Thea curled up in one

As the short twilight came on, Giddy took a turn in the cupola, and Ray came down and sat with Thea on the

rear platform of the caboose and watched the darkness come in soft waves over the plain. They were now

about thirty miles from Denver, and the mountains looked very near. The great toothed wall behind which the

sun had gone down now separated into four distinct ranges, one behind the other. They were a very pale blue,

a color scarcely stronger than wood smoke, and the sunset had left bright streaks in the snowfilled gorges. In

the clear, yellow streaked sky the stars were coming out, flickering like newly lighted lamps, growing

steadier and more golden as the sky darkened and the land beneath them fell into com plete shadow. It was a

cool, restful darkness that was not black or forbidding, but somehow open and free; the night of high plains

Ray lit his pipe. "I never get tired of them old stars, Thee. I miss 'em up in Washington and Oregon where it's

misty. Like 'em best down in Mother Mexico, where they have everything their own way. I'm not for any

country where the stars are dim." Ray paused and drew on his pipe. "I don't know as I ever really noticed 'em

much till that first year I herded sheep up in Wyoming. That was the year the blizzard caught me."

"And you lost all your sheep, didn't you, Ray?" Thea spoke sympathetically. "Was the man who owned them

"Yes, he was a good loser. But I didn't get over it for a long while. Sheep are so damned resigned.

Sometimes, to this day, when I'm dogtired, I try to save them sheep all night long. It comes kind of hard on

a boy when he first finds out how little he is, and how big everything else is."

Thea moved restlessly toward him and dropped her chin on her hand, looking at a low star that seemed to rest

just on the rim of the earth. "I don't see how you stood it. I don't believe I could. I don't see how people can

stand it to get knocked out, anyhow!" She spoke with such fierce ness that Ray glanced at her in surprise.

She was sitting on the floor of the car, crouching like a little animal about to spring.

"No occasion for you to see," he said warmly. "There'll always be plenty of other people to take the knocks

"That's nonsense, Ray." Thea spoke impatiently and leaned lower still, frowning at the red star. "Everybody's

"In one way, yes," Ray admitted, knocking the sparks from his pipe out into the soft darkness that seemed to

flow like a river beside the car. "But when you look at it another way, there are a lot of halfway people in this

world who help the winners win, and the failers fail. If a man stumbles, there's plenty of people to push him

down. But if he's like `the youth who bore,' those same people are foreordained to help him along. They may

hate to, worse than blazes, and they may do a lot of cussin' about it, but they have to help the winners and

they can't dodge it. It's a natural law, like what keeps the big clock up there going, little wheels and big, and

no mixup." Ray's hand and his pipe were suddenly outlined against the sky. "Ever occur to you, Thee, that

they have to be on time close enough to MAKE TIME? The Dispatcher up there must have a long head."

Pleased with his similitude, Ray went back to the lookout. Going into Denver, he had to keep a sharp watch.

Giddy came down, cheerful at the prospect of getting into port, and singing a new topical ditty that had come

up from the Santa Fe by way of La Junta. Nobody knows who makes these songs; they seem to follow events

auto matically. Mrs. Kronborg made Giddy sing the whole twelve verses of this one, and laughed until she

wiped her eyes. The story was that of Katie Casey, head dining room girl at Winslow, Arizona, who was

unjustly dis charged by the Harvey House manager. Her suitor, the yardmaster, took the switchmen out on a

strike until she was reinstated. Freight trains from the east and the west piled up at Winslow until the yards

looked like a logjam. The division superintendent, who was in California, had to wire instructions for Katie

Casey's restoration before he could get his trains running. Giddy's song told all this with much detail, both

Thea laughed with her mother and applauded Giddy. Everything was so kindly and comfortable; Giddy and

Ray, and their hospitable little house, and the easygoing country, and the stars. She curled up on the seat

again with that warm, sleepy feeling of the friendliness of the worldwhich nobody keeps very long, and

The summer flew by. Thea was glad when Ray Kennedy had a Sunday in town and could take her driving.

Out among the sand hills she could forget the "new room" which was the scene of wearing and fruitless labor.

Dr. Archie was away from home a good deal that year. He had put all his money into mines above Colo

In the fall of that year, Mr. Kronborg decided that Thea ought to show more interest in church work. He put it

to her frankly, one night at supper, before the whole family. "How can I insist on the other girls in the

congregation being active in the work, when one of my own daughters manifests so little interest?"

"But I sing every Sunday morning, and I have to give up one night a week to choir practice," Thea declared

rebelliously, pushing back her plate with an angry deter mination to eat nothing more.

"One night a week is not enough for the pastor's daugh ter," her father replied. "You won't do anything in

the sewing society, and you won't take part in the Christian Endeavor or the Band of Hope. Very well, you

must make it up in other ways. I want some one to play the organ and lead the singing at prayermeeting this

winter. Deacon Potter told me some time ago that he thought there would be more interest in our

prayermeetings if we had the organ. Miss Meyers don't feel that she can play on Wednesday nights. And

there ought to be somebody to start the hymns. Mrs. Potter is getting old, and she always starts them too high.

This argument conquered Thea, though she left the table sullenly. The fear of the tongue, that terror of little

towns, is usually felt more keenly by the minister's family than by other households. Whenever the

Kronborgs wanted to do anything, even to buy a new carpet, they had to take counsel together as to whether

people would talk. Mrs. Kronborg had her own conviction that people talked when they felt like it, and said

what they chose, no matter how the minister's family conducted themselves. But she did not impart these

dangerous ideas to her children. Thea was still under the belief that public opinion could be placated; that if

Mrs. Kronborg did not have any particular zest for prayermeetings, and she stayed at home whenever she

had a valid excuse. Thor was too old to furnish such an excuse now, so every Wednesday night, unless one of

the children was sick, she trudged off with Thea, behind Mr. Kronborg. At first Thea was terribly bored. But

The exercises were always pretty much the same. After the first hymn her father read a passage from the

Bible, usually a Psalm. Then there was another hymn, and then her father commented upon the passage he

had read and, as he said, "applied the Word to our necessities." After a third hymn, the meeting was declared

open, and the old men and women took turns at praying and talking. Mrs. Kronborg never spoke in meeting.

She told people firmly that she had been brought up to keep silent and let the men talk, but she gave

The prayermeeting audience was always small. The young and energetic members of the congregation came

only once or twice a year, "to keep people from talking." The usual Wednesday night gathering was made up

of old women, with perhaps six or eight old men, and a few sickly girls who had not much interest in life; two

of them, in deed, were already preparing to die. Thea accepted the mournfulness of the prayermeetings as a

kind of spiritual discipline, like funerals. She always read late after she went home and felt a stronger wish

The meetings were conducted in the SundaySchool room, where there were wooden chairs instead of pews;

an old map of Palestine hung on the wall, and the bracket lamps gave out only a dim light. The old women sat

motionless as Indians in their shawls and bonnets; some of them wore long black mourning veils. The old

men drooped in their chairs. Every back, every face, every head said "resignation." Often there were long

silences, when you could hear nothing but the crackling of the soft coal in the stove and the muffled cough of

There was one nice old lady,tall, erect, selfrespect ing, with a delicate white face and a soft voice. She

never whined, and what she said was always cheerful, though she spoke so nervously that Thea knew she

dreaded getting up, and that she made a real sacrifice to, as she said, "tes tify to the goodness of her

Saviour." She was the mother of the girl who coughed, and Thea used to wonder how she explained things to

herself. There was, indeed, only one woman who talked because she was, as Mr. Kronborg said, "tonguey."

The others were somehow impressive. They told about the sweet thoughts that came to them while they were

at their work; how, amid their household tasks, they were suddenly lifted by the sense of a divine Presence.

Sometimes they told of their first conversion, of how in their youth that higher Power had made itself known

to them. Old Mr. Carsen, the carpenter, who gave his ser vices as janitor to the church, used often to tell

how, when he was a young man and a scoffer, bent on the destruction of both body and soul, his Saviour had

come to him in the Michigan woods and had stood, it seemed to him, beside the tree he was felling; and how

he dropped his axe and knelt in prayer "to Him who died for us upon the tree." Thea always wanted to ask

Sometimes the old people would ask for prayers for their absent children. Sometimes they asked their

brothers and sisters in Christ to pray that they might be stronger against temptations. One of the sick girls

used to ask them to pray that she might have more faith in the times of depression that came to her, "when all

the way before seemed dark." She repeated that husky phrase so often, that Thea always remembered it.

One old woman, who never missed a Wednesday night, and who nearly always took part in the meeting,

came all the way up from the depot settlement. She always wore a black crocheted "fascinator" over her thin

white hair, and she made long, tremulous prayers, full of railroad termin ology. She had six sons in the

service of different railroads, and she always prayed "for the boys on the road, who know not at what moment

they may be cut off. When, in Thy divine wisdom, their hour is upon them, may they, O our Heavenly Father,

see only white lights along the road to Eternity." She used to speak, too, of "the engines that race with death";

and though she looked so old and little when she was on her knees, and her voice was so shaky, her prayers

had a thrill of speed and danger in them; they made one think of the deep black canyons, the slender trestles,

the pounding trains. Thea liked to look at her sunken eyes that seemed full of wisdom, at her black thread

gloves, much too long in the fingers and so meekly folded one over the other. Her face was brown, and worn

away as rocks are worn by water. There are many ways of describing that color of age, but in reality it is not

like parchment, or like any of the things it is said to be like. That brownness and that texture of skin are found

only in the faces of old human creatures, who have worked hard and who have always been poor.

One bitterly cold night in December the prayermeeting seemed to Thea longer than usual. The prayers and

the talks went on and on. It was as if the old people were afraid to go out into the cold, or were stupefied by

the hot air of the room. She had left a book at home that she was impatient to get back to. At last the

Doxology was sung, but the old people lingered about the stove to greet each other, and Thea took her

mother's arm and hurried out to the frozen sidewalk, before her father could get away. The wind was

whistling up the street and whipping the naked cottonwood trees against the telegraph poles and the sides of

the houses. Thin snow clouds were flying overhead, so that the sky looked gray, with a dull phosphorescence.

The icy streets and the shingle roofs of the houses were gray, too. All along the street, shutters banged or

windows rattled, or gates wobbled, held by their latch but shaking on loose hinges. There was not a cat or a

dog in Moonstone that night that was not given a warm shelter; the cats under the kitchen stove, the dogs in

barns or coalsheds. When Thea and her mother reached home, their mufflers were covered with ice, where

their breath had frozen. They hurried into the house and made a dash for the parlor and the hardcoal burner,

behind which Gunner was sitting on a stool, reading his Jules Verne book. The door stood open into the

diningroom, which was heated from the parlor. Mr. Kronborg always had a lunch when he came home from

prayermeeting, and his pumpkin pie and milk were set out on the diningtable. Mrs. Kronborg said she

thought she felt hungry, too, and asked Thea if she didn't want something to eat.

"I expect you've got some book up there," said Mrs. Kronborg, bringing out another pie. "You'd better bring

it down here and read. Nobody'll disturb you, and it's terrible cold up in that loft."

Thea was always assured that no one would disturb her if she read downstairs, but the boys talked when they

came in, and her father fairly delivered discourses after he had been renewed by half a pie and a pitcher of

"I don't mind the cold. I'll take a hot brick up for my feet. I put one in the stove before I left, if one of the

boys hasn't stolen it. Goodnight, mother." Thea got her brick and lantern, and dashed upstairs through the

windy loft. She undressed at top speed and got into bed with her brick. She put a pair of white knitted gloves

on her hands, and pinned over her head a piece of soft flannel that had been one of Thor's long petticoats

when he was a baby. Thus equipped, she was ready for business. She took from her table a thick

paperbacked volume, one of the "line" of paper novels the druggist kept to sell to traveling men. She had

bought it, only yesterday, because the first sen tence interested her very much, and because she saw, as she

glanced over the pages, the magical names of two Russian cities. The book was a poor translation of "Anna

Karenina." Thea opened it at a mark, and fixed her eyes intently upon the small print. The hymns, the sick

girl, the resigned black figures were forgotten. It was the night of the ball in Moscow.

Thea would have been astonished if she could have known how, years afterward, when she had need of them,

those old faces were to come back to her, long after they were hidden away under the earth; that they would

seem to her then as full of meaning, as mysteriously marked by Destiny, as the people who danced the

Mr. Kronborg was too fond of his ease and too sensible to worry his children much about religion. He was

more sincere than many preachers, but when he spoke to his family about matters of conduct it was usually

with a regard for keeping up appearances. The church and church work were discussed in the family like the

routine of any other business. Sunday was the hard day of the week with them, just as Saturday was the busy

day with the merchants on Main Street. Revivals were seasons of extra work and pressure, just as

threshingtime was on the farms. Visiting elders had to be lodged and cooked for, the foldingbed in the

parlor was let down, and Mrs. Kronborg had to work in the kitchen all day long and attend the night

During one of these revivals Thea's sister Anna professed religion with, as Mrs. Kronborg said, "a good deal

of fluster." While Anna was going up to the mourners' bench nightly and asking for the prayers of the

congregation, she disseminated general gloom throughout the household, and after she joined the church she

took on an air of "setapart ness" that was extremely trying to her brothers and her sister, though they

realized that Anna's sanctimoniousness was perhaps a good thing for their father. A preacher ought to have

one child who did more than merely acquiesce in religious observances, and Thea and the boys were glad

"Anna, she's American," Mrs. Kronborg used to say. The Scandinavian mould of countenance, more or less

marked in each of the other children, was scarcely dis cernible in her, and she looked enough like other

Moon stone girls to be thought pretty. Anna's nature was con ventional, like her face. Her position as the

minister's eldest daughter was important to her, and she tried to live up to it. She read sentimental religious

storybooks and emulated the spiritual struggles and magnanimous behavior of their persecuted heroines.

Everything had to be interpreted for Anna. Her opinions about the small est and most commonplace things

were gleaned from the Denver papers, the church weeklies, from sermons and SundaySchool addresses.

Scarcely anything was attrac tive to her in its natural stateindeed, scarcely anything was decent until it

was clothed by the opinion of some authority. Her ideas about habit, character, duty, love, marriage, were

grouped under heads, like a book of popular quotations, and were totally unrelated to the emergencies of

human living. She discussed all these subjects with other Methodist girls of her age. They would spend hours,

for instance, in deciding what they would or would not toler ate in a suitor or a husband, and the frailties of

masculine nature were too often a subject of discussion among them. In her behavior Anna was a harmless

girl, mild except where her prejudices were concerned, neat and industrious, with no graver fault than

priggishness; but her mind had really shocking habits of classification. The wickedness of Denver and of

Chicago, and even of Moonstone, occupied her thoughts too much. She had none of the delicacy that goes

with a nature of warm impulses, but the kind of fishy curiosity which justifies itself by an expression of

Thea, and all Thea's ways and friends, seemed indecor ous to Anna. She not only felt a grave social

discrimination against the Mexicans; she could not forget that Spanish Johnny was a drunkard and that

"nobody knew what he did when he ran away from home." Thea pretended, of course, that she liked the

Mexicans because they were fond of music; but every one knew that music was no thing very real, and that

it did not matter in a girl's re lations with people. What was real, then, and what did matter? Poor Anna!

Anna approved of Ray Kennedy as a young man of steady habits and blameless life, but she regretted that he

was an atheist, and that he was not a passenger conductor with brass buttons on his coat. On the whole, she

won dered what such an exemplary young man found to like in Thea. Dr. Archie she treated respectfully

because of his position in Moonstone, but she KNEW he had kissed the Mexican barytone's pretty daughter,

and she had a whole DOSSIER of evidence about his behavior in his hours of relax ation in Denver. He was

"fast," and it was because he was "fast" that Thea liked him. Thea always liked that kind of people. Dr.

Archie's whole manner with Thea, Anna often told her mother, was too free. He was always putting his hand

on Thea's head, or holding her hand while he laughed and looked down at her. The kindlier manifesta tion

of human nature (about which Anna sang and talked, in the interests of which she went to conventions and

wore white ribbons) were never realities to her after all. She did not believe in them. It was only in attitudes

of protest or reproof, clinging to the cross, that human beings could be even temporarily decent.

Preacher Kronborg's secret convictions were very much like Anna's. He believed that his wife was absolutely

good, but there was not a man or woman in his congregation whom he trusted all the way.

Mrs. Kronborg, on the other hand, was likely to find something to admire in almost any human conduct that

was positive and energetic. She could always be taken in by the stories of tramps and runaway boys. She

went to the circus and admired the bareback riders, who were "likely good enough women in their way." She

admired Dr. Archie's fine physique and wellcut clothes as much as Thea did, and said she "felt it was a

Soon after Anna became a church member she began to remonstrate with Thea about practicingplaying

"secu lar music"on Sunday. One Sunday the dispute in the parlor grew warm and was carried to Mrs.

Kronborg in the kitchen. She listened judicially and told Anna to read the chapter about how Naaman the

leper was permitted to bow down in the house of Rimmon. Thea went back to the piano, and Anna lingered to

"No," said Mrs. Kronborg, rather indifferently, "I can't see it that way, Anna. I never forced you to practice,

and I don't see as I should keep Thea from it. I like to hear her, and I guess your father does. You and Thea

will likely fol low different lines, and I don't see as I'm called upon to bring you up alike."

Anna looked meek and abused. "Of course all the church people must hear her. Ours is the only noisy house

Mrs. Kronborg rose from browning her coffee. "Yes; it's the Blue Danube waltzes. I'm familiar with 'em. If

any of the church people come at you, you just send 'em to me. I ain't afraid to speak out on occasion, and I

wouldn't mind one bit telling the Ladies' Aid a few things about standard composers." Mrs. Kronborg smiled,

Anna went about with a reserved and distant air for a week, and Mrs. Kronborg suspected that she held a

larger place than usual in her daughter's prayers; but that was another thing she didn't mind.

Although revivals were merely a part of the year's work, like examination week at school, and although

Anna's piety impressed her very little, a time came when Thea was perplexed about religion. A scourge of

typhoid broke out in Moonstone and several of Thea's schoolmates died of it. She went to their funerals, saw

them put into the ground, and wondered a good deal about them. But a certain grim incident, which caused

Early in July, soon after Thea's fifteenth birthday, a particularly disgusting sort of tramp came into

Moonstone in an empty box car. Thea was sitting in the hammock in the front yard when he first crawled up

to the town from the depot, carrying a bundle wrapped in dirty ticking under one arm, and under the other a

wooden box with rusty screening nailed over one end. He had a thin, hungry face covered with black hair. It

was just before supper time when he came along, and the street smelled of fried potatoes and fried onions

and coffee. Thea saw him sniffing the air greedily and walking slower and slower. He looked over the fence.

She hoped he would not stop at their gate, for her mother never turned any one away, and this was the dirtiest

and most utterly wretchedlooking tramp she had ever seen. There was a terrible odor about him, too. She

caught it even at that distance, and put her handker chief to her nose. A moment later she was sorry, for she

A few days later Thea heard that the tramp had camped in an empty shack over on the east edge of town,

beside the ravine, and was trying to give a miserable sort of show there. He told the boys who went to see

what he was doing, that he had traveled with a circus. His bundle contained a filthy clown's suit, and his box

Saturday night, when Thea went to the butcher shop to get the chickens for Sunday, she heard the whine of an

accordion and saw a crowd before one of the saloons. There she found the tramp, his bony body grotesquely

attired in the clown's suit, his face shaved and painted white,the sweat trickling through the paint and

washing it away, and his eyes wild and feverish. Pulling the accordion in and out seemed to be almost too

great an effort for him, and he panted to the tune of "Marching through Georgia." After a considerable crowd

had gathered, the tramp ex hibited his box of snakes, announced that he would now pass the hat, and that

when the onlookers had contributed the sum of one dollar, he would eat "one of these living reptiles." The

crowd began to cough and murmur, and the saloon keeper rushed off for the marshal, who arrested the wretch

The calaboose stood in a sunflower patch,an old hut with a barred window and a padlock on the door. The

tramp was utterly filthy and there was no way to give him a bath. The law made no provision to grubstake

vagrants, so after the constable had detained the tramp for twenty four hours, he released him and told him

to "get out of town, and get quick." The fellow's rattlesnakes had been killed by the saloon keeper. He hid in a

box car in the freight yard, probably hoping to get a ride to the next station, but he was found and put out.

After that he was seen no more. He had disappeared and left no trace except an ugly, stupid word, chalked on

the black paint of the seventyfivefoot standpipe which was the reservoir for the Moonstone watersupply;

the same word, in another tongue, that the French soldier shouted at Waterloo to the English officer who bade

the Old Guard surrender; a comment on life which the defeated, along the hard roads of the world, sometimes

A week after the tramp excitement had passed over, the city water began to smell and to taste. The Kron

borgs had a well in their back yard and did not use city water, but they heard the complaints of their

neighbors. At first people said that the town well was full of rot ting cottonwood roots, but the engineer at

the pumping station convinced the mayor that the water left the well untainted. Mayors reason slowly, but,

the well being eliminated, the official mind had to travel toward the standpipethere was no other track for

it to go in. The standpipe amply rewarded investigation. The tramp had got even with Moonstone. He had

climbed the standpipe by the handholds and let himself down into seventyfive feet of cold water, with his

shoes and hat and roll of ticking. The city council had a mild panic and passed a new ordinance about tramps.

But the fever had already broken out, and several adults and half a dozen children died of it.

Thea had always found everything that happened in Moonstone exciting, disasters particularly so. It was

grat ifying to read sensational Moonstone items in the Denver paper. But she wished she had not chanced to

see the tramp as he came into town that evening, sniffing the supperladen air. His face remained

unpleasantly clear in her memory, and her mind struggled with the problem of his behavior as if it were a

hard page in arithmetic. Even when she was practicing, the drama of the tramp kept going on in the back of

her head, and she was constantly trying to make herself realize what pitch of hatred or despair could drive a

man to do such a hideous thing. She kept seeing him in his bedraggled clown suit, the white paint on his

roughly shaven face, playing his accordion before the saloon. She had noticed his lean body, his high, bald

forehead that sloped back like a curved metal lid. How could people fall so far out of fortune? She tried to

talk to Ray Kennedy about her perplexity, but Ray would not discuss things of that sort with her. It was in his

sentimental conception of women that they should be deeply religious, though men were at liberty to doubt

and finally to deny. A picture called "The Soul Awakened," popular in Moonstone parlors, pretty well

One evening when she was haunted by the figure of the tramp, Thea went up to Dr. Archie's office. She

found him sewing up two bad gashes in the face of a little boy who had been kicked by a mule. After the boy

had been ban daged and sent away with his father, Thea helped the doc tor wash and put away the surgical

instruments. Then she dropped into her accustomed seat beside his desk and began to talk about the tramp.

"It seems to me, Dr. Archie, that the whole town's to blame. I'm to blame, myself. I know he saw me hold my

nose when he went by. Father's to blame. If he believes the Bible, he ought to have gone to the calaboose and

cleaned that man up and taken care of him. That's what I can't understand; do people believe the Bible, or

don't they? If the next life is all that matters, and we're put here to get ready for it, then why do we try to

make money, or learn things, or have a good time? There's not one person in Moonstone that really lives the

Dr. Archie swung round in his chair and looked at her, honestly and leniently. "Well, Thea, it seems to me

like this. Every people has had its religion. All religions are good, and all are pretty much alike. But I don't

see how we could live up to them in the sense you mean. I've thought about it a good deal, and I can't help

feeling that while we are in this world we have to live for the best things of this world, and those things are

material and positive. Now, most religions are passive, and they tell us chiefly what we should not do." The

doctor moved restlessly, and his eyes hunted for something along the opposite wall: "See here, my girl, take

out the years of early childhood and the time we spend in sleep and dull old age, and we only have about

twenty able, waking years. That's not long enough to get acquainted with half the fine things that have been

done in the world, much less to do anything ourselves. I think we ought to keep the Commandments and help

other people all we can; but the main thing is to live those twenty splendid years; to do all we can and enjoy

Dr. Archie met his little friend's searching gaze, the look of acute inquiry which always touched him.

The doctor leaned forward and put his hand protect ingly over hers, which lay clenched on the green felt

desk top. "Ugly accidents happen, Thea; always have and always will. But the failures are swept back into

the pile and forgotten. They don't leave any lasting scar in the world, and they don't affect the future. The

things that last are the good things. The people who forge ahead and do something, they really count." He

saw tears on her cheeks, and he remembered that he had never seen her cry before, not even when she

crushed her finger when she was little. He rose and walked to the window, came back and sat down on the

"Forget the tramp, Thea. This is a great big world, and I want you to get about and see it all. You're going to

Chicago some day, and do something with that fine voice of yours. You're going to be a number one

musician and make us proud of you. Take Mary Anderson, now; even the tramps are proud of her. There isn't

a tramp along the `Q' system who hasn't heard of her. We all like people who do things, even if we only see

They had a long talk. Thea felt that Dr. Archie had never let himself out to her so much before. It was the

most grownup conversation she had ever had with him. She left his office happy, flattered and stimulated.

She ran for a long while about the white, moonlit streets, looking up at the stars and the bluish night, at the

quiet houses sunk in black shade, the glittering sand hills. She loved the familiar trees, and the people in those

little houses, and she loved the unknown world beyond Denver. She felt as if she were being pulled in two,

between the desire to go away forever and the desire to stay forever. She had only twenty yearsno time to

Many a night that summer she left Dr. Archie's office with a desire to run and run about those quiet streets

until she wore out her shoes, or wore out the streets themselves; when her chest ached and it seemed as if her

heart were spreading all over the desert. When she went home, it was not to go to sleep. She used to drag her

mattress beside her low window and lie awake for a long while, vibrating with excitement, as a machine

vibrates from speed. Life rushed in upon her through that windowor so it seemed. In reality, of course, life

rushes from within, not from with out. There is no work of art so big or so beautiful that it was not once all

contained in some youthful body, like this one which lay on the floor in the moonlight, pulsing with ardor

and anticipation. It was on such nights that Thea Kronborg learned the thing that old Dumas meant when he

told the Romanticists that to make a drama he needed but one passion and four walls.

It is well for its peace of mind that the traveling public takes railroads so much for granted. The only men

who are incurably nervous about railway travel are the railroad operatives. A railroad man never forgets that

On a singletrack road, like that upon which Ray Ken nedy worked, the freight trains make their way as

best they can between passenger trains. Even when there is such a thing as a freight timeschedule, it is

merely a form. Along the one track dozens of fast and slow trains dash in both directions, kept from collision

only by the brains in the dispatcher's office. If one passenger train is late, the whole schedule must be revised

in an instant; the trains following must be warned, and those moving toward the belated train must be

Between the shifts and modifications of the passenger schedule, the freight trains play a game of their own.

They have no right to the track at any given time, but are sup posed to be on it when it is free, and to make

the best time they can between passenger trains. A freight train, on a singletrack road, gets anywhere at all

Ray Kennedy had stuck to the freight service, although he had had opportunities to go into the passenger

service at higher pay. He always regarded railroading as a tempo rary makeshift, until he "got into

something," and he dis liked the passenger service. No brass buttons for him, he said; too much like a livery.

The wreck that "caught" Ray was a very commonplace one; nothing thrilling about it, and it got only six lines

in the Denver papers. It happened about daybreak one morning, only thirtytwo miles from home.

At four o'clock in the morning Ray's train had stopped to take water at Saxony, having just rounded the long

curve which lies south of that station. It was Joe Giddy's business to walk back along the curve about three

hundred yards and put out torpedoes to warn any train which might be coming up from behinda freight

crew is not notified of trains following, and the brakeman is supposed to protect his train. Ray was so fussy

about the punctilious observ ance of orders that almost any brakeman would take a chance once in a while,

When the train stopped for water that morning, Ray was at the desk in his caboose, making out his report.

Giddy took his torpedoes, swung off the rear platform, and glanced back at the curve. He decided that he

would not go back to flag this time. If anything was coming up be hind, he could hear it in plenty of time.

So he ran forward to look after a hot journal that had been bothering him. In a general way, Giddy's reasoning

was sound. If a freight train, or even a passenger train, had been coming up behind them, he could have heard

it in time. But as it happened, a light engine, which made no noise at all, was coming, ordered out to help

with the freight that was piling up at the other end of the division. This engine got no warning, came round

the curve, struck the caboose, went straight through it, and crashed into the heavy lumber car ahead.

The Kronborgs were just sitting down to breakfast, when the night telegraph operator dashed into the yard at

a run and hammered on the front door. Gunner answered the knock, and the telegraph operator told him he

wanted to see his father a minute, quick. Mr. Kronborg appeared at the door, napkin in hand. The operator

"Fourteen was wrecked down at Saxony this morning," he shouted, "and Kennedy's all broke up. We're

sending an engine down with the doctor, and the operator at Saxony says Kennedy wants you to come along

"No time for that, sir. Getting the engine out now. Your girl, Thea. You'll surely do that for the poor chap.

Everybody knows he thinks the world of her." Seeing that Mr. Kronborg showed no indication of having

made up his mind, the operator turned to Gunner. "Call your sister, kid. I'm going to ask the girl herself," he

"Yes, yes, certainly. Daughter," Mr. Kronborg called. He had somewhat recovered himself and reached to the

Just as Thea came out on the front porch, before the operator had had time to explain to her, Dr. Archie's

ponies came up to the gate at a brisk trot. Archie jumped out the moment his driver stopped the team and

came up to the bewildered girl without so much as saying goodmorn ing to any one. He took her hand with

the sympathetic, reassuring graveness which had helped her at more than one hard time in her life. "Get your

hat, my girl. Ken nedy's hurt down the road, and he wants you to run down with me. They'll have a car for

us. Get into my buggy, Mr. Kronborg. I'll drive you down, and Larry can come for the team."

The driver jumped out of the buggy and Mr. Kronborg and the doctor got in. Thea, still bewildered, sat on her

When they reached the depot, the engine, with one car attached, was standing on the main track. The engineer

had got his steam up, and was leaning out of the cab im patiently. In a moment they were off. The run to

Saxony took forty minutes. Thea sat still in her seat while Dr. Archie and her father talked about the wreck.

She took no part in the conversation and asked no questions, but occasionally she looked at Dr. Archie with a

frightened, inquiring glance, which he answered by an encouraging nod. Neither he nor her father said

anything about how badly Ray was hurt. When the engine stopped near Saxony, the main track was already

"Thea, you'd better sit down here and watch the wreck crew while your father and I go up and look Kennedy

The two men went off up the sand gulch, and Thea sat down and looked at the pile of splintered wood and

twisted iron that had lately been Ray's caboose. She was fright ened and absentminded. She felt that she

ought to be thinking about Ray, but her mind kept racing off to all sorts of trivial and irrelevant things. She

wondered whether Grace Johnson would be furious when she came to take her music lesson and found

nobody there to give it to her; whether she had forgotten to close the piano last night and whether Thor would

get into the new room and mess the keys all up with his sticky fingers; whether Tillie would go upstairs and

make her bed for her. Her mind worked fast, but she could fix it upon nothing. The grasshoppers, the lizards,

On their way to the sand bank where Ray had been car ried, Dr. Archie and Mr. Kronborg met the Saxony

"Nothing you can do, doctor. I couldn't count the fractures. His back's broken, too. He wouldn't be alive now

if he weren't so confoundedly strong, poor chap. No use bothering him. I've given him morphia, one and a

Dr. Archie hurried on. Ray was lying on a flat canvas litter, under the shelter of a shelving bank, lightly

shaded by a slender cottonwood tree. When the doctor and the preacher approached, he looked at them

Dr. Archie knew what was the matter. "Thea's back there, Ray. I'll bring her as soon as I've had a look at

Ray looked up. "You might clean me up a trifle, doc. Won't need you for anything else, thank you all the

However little there was left of him, that little was cer tainly Ray Kennedy. His personality was as positive

as ever, and the blood and dirt on his face seemed merely accidental, to have nothing to do with the man

himself. Dr. Archie told Mr. Kronborg to bring a pail of water, and he began to sponge Ray's face and neck.

Mr. Kronborg stood by, nervously rubbing his hands together and trying to think of something to say. Serious

situations always embarrassed him and made him formal, even when he felt real sympathy.

"In times like this, Ray," he brought out at last, crum pling up his handkerchief in his long fingers,"in

times like this, we don't want to forget the Friend that sticketh closer than a brother."

Ray looked up at him; a lonely, disconsolate smile played over his mouth and his square cheeks. "Never mind

There was a moment of silence. Then Ray took pity on Mr. Kronborg's embarrassment. "You go back for the

Ray talked to Dr. Archie for a few moments, then stopped suddenly, with a broad smile. Over the doctor's

shoulder he saw Thea coming up the gulch, in her pink chambray dress, carrying her sunhat by the strings.

Such a yellow head! He often told himself that he "was per fectly foolish about her hair." The sight of her,

coming, went through him softly, like the morphia. "There she is," he whispered. "Get the old preacher out of

Dr. Archie looked up. Thea was hurrying and yet hang ing back. She was more frightened than he had

thought she would be. She had gone with him to see very sick people and had always been steady and calm.

As she came up, she looked at the ground, and he could see that she had been crying.

Ray Kennedy made an unsuccessful effort to put out his hand. "Hello, little kid, nothing to be afraid of.

Darned if I don't believe they've gone and scared you! Nothing to cry about. I'm the same old goods, only a

little dented. Sit down on my coat there, and keep me company. I've got to lay still a bit."

Dr. Archie and Mr. Kronborg disappeared. Thea cast a timid glance after them, but she sat down resolutely

"You ain't scared now, are you?" he asked affection ately. "You were a regular brick to come, Thee. Did

"No, Ray, I'm not scared. Only I'm dreadful sorry you're hurt, and I can't help crying."

His broad, earnest face, languid from the opium and smiling with such simple happiness, reassured her. She

drew nearer to him and lifted his hand to her knee. He looked at her with his clear, shallow blue eyes. How he

loved everything about that face and head! How many nights in his cupola, looking up the track, he had seen

that face in the darkness; through the sleet and snow, or in the soft blue air when the moonlight slept on the

"You needn't bother to talk, Thee. The doctor's medi cine makes me sort of dopey. But it's nice to have

com pany. Kind of cozy, don't you think? Pull my coat under you more. It's a darned shame I can't wait on

"No, no, Ray. I'm all right. Yes, I like it here. And I guess you ought not to talk much, ought you? If you can

sleep, I'll stay right here, and be awful quiet. I feel just as much at home with you as ever, now."

That simple, humble, faithful something in Ray's eyes went straight to Thea's heart. She did feel comfortable

with him, and happy to give him so much happiness. It was the first time she had ever been conscious of that

power to bestow intense happiness by simply being near any one. She always remembered this day as the

beginning of that knowledge. She bent over him and put her lips softly to his cheek.

Ray's eyes filled with light. "Oh, do that again, kid!" he said impulsively. Thea kissed him on the forehead,

blushing faintly. Ray held her hand fast and closed his eyes with a deep sigh of happiness. The morphia and

the sense of her nearness filled him with content. The gold mine, the oil well, the copper ledgeall pipe

dreams, he mused, and this was a dream, too. He might have known it before. It had always been like that;

the things he admired had always been away out of his reach: a college education, a gentleman's manner, an

Englishman's accentthings over his head. And Thea was farther out of his reach than all the rest put

together. He had been a fool to imagine it, but he was glad he had been a fool. She had given him one grand

dream. Every mile of his run, from Moonstone to Denver, was painted with the colors of that hope. Every

cactus knew about it. But now that it was not to be, he knew the truth. Thea was never meant for any rough

fellow like himhadn't he really known that all along, he asked himself? She wasn't meant for common

men. She was like wedding cake, a thing to dream on. He raised his eye lids a little. She was stroking his

hand and looking off into the distance. He felt in her face that look of unconscious power that Wunsch had

seen there. Yes, she was bound for the big terminals of the world; no way stations for her. His lids drooped.

In the dark he could see her as she would be after a while; in a box at the Tabor Grand in Denver, with

diamonds on her neck and a tiara in her yellow hair, with all the people looking at her through their

operaglasses, and a United States Senator, maybe, talking to her. "Then you'll remember me!" He opened

The spark in his eye, which is one's very self, caught the spark in hers that was herself, and for a moment they

looked into each other's natures. Thea realized how good and how greathearted he was, and he realized

about her many things. When that elusive spark of personality re treated in each of them, Thea still saw in

his wet eyes her own face, very small, but much prettier than the cracked glass at home had ever shown it. It

was the first time she had seen her face in that kindest mirror a woman can ever find.

Ray had felt things in that moment when he seemed to be looking into the very soul of Thea Kronborg. Yes,

the gold mine, the oil well, the copper ledge, they'd all got away from him, as things will; but he'd backed a

winner once in his life! With all his might he gave his faith to the broad little hand he held. He wished he

could leave her the rugged strength of his body to help her through with it all. He would have liked to tell her

a little about his old dream,there seemed long years between him and it al ready,but to tell her now

would somehow be unfair; wouldn't be quite the straightest thing in the world. Probably she knew, anyway.

He looked up quickly. "You know, don't you, Thee, that I think you are just the finest thing I've struck in this

The tears ran down Thea's cheeks. "You're too good to me, Ray. You're a lot too good to me," she faltered.

"Can't you give me another punch with your pacifier, doc? The little girl had better run along now." Ray re

She got up and moved away aimlessly, carrying her hat by the strings. Ray looked after her with the

exaltation born of bodily pain and said between his teeth, "Always look after that girl, doc. She's a queen!"

Thea and her father went back to Moonstone on the oneo'clock passenger. Dr. Archie stayed with Ray Ken

On Monday morning, the day after Ray Kennedy's funeral, Dr. Archie called at Mr. Kronborg's study, a little

room behind the church. Mr. Kronborg did not write out his sermons, but spoke from notes jotted upon small

pieces of cardboard in a kind of shorthand of his own. As sermons go, they were not worse than most. His

con ventional rhetoric pleased the majority of his congregation, and Mr. Kronborg was generally regarded

as a model preacher. He did not smoke, he never touched spirits. His indulgence in the pleasures of the table

was an endearing bond between him and the women of his congregation. He ate enormously, with a zest

This morning the doctor found him opening his mail and reading a pile of advertising circulars with deep

"Goodmorning, Mr. Kronborg," said Dr. Archie, sit ting down. "I came to see you on business. Poor

Kennedy asked me to look after his affairs for him. Like most rail road men he spent his wages, except for a

few invest ments in mines which don't look to me very promising. But his life was insured for six hundred

Mr. Kronborg wound his feet about the standard of his deskchair. "I assure you, doctor, this is a complete

"Well, it's not very surprising to me," Dr. Archie went on. "He talked to me about it the day he was hurt. He

said he wanted the money to be used in a particular way, and in no other." Dr. Archie paused meaningly.

Mr. Kronborg fidgeted. "I am sure Thea would observe his wishes in every respect."

"No doubt; but he wanted me to see that you agreed to his plan. It seems that for some time Thea has wanted

to go away to study music. It was Kennedy's wish that she should take this money and go to Chicago this

winter. He felt that it would be an advantage to her in a business way: that even if she came back here to

teach, it would give her more authority and make her position here more com fortable."

Mr. Kronborg looked a little startled. "She is very young," he hesitated; "she is barely seventeen. Chicago is a

long way from home. We would have to consider. I think, Dr. Archie, we had better consult Mrs. Kronborg."

"I think I can bring Mrs. Kronborg around, if I have your consent. I've always found her pretty levelheaded.

I have several old classmates practicing in Chicago. One is a throat specialist. He has a good deal to do with

singers. He probably knows the best piano teachers and could re commend a boardinghouse where music

students stay. I think Thea needs to get among a lot of young people who are clever like herself. Here she has

no companions but old fellows like me. It's not a natural life for a young girl. She'll either get warped, or

wither up before her time. If it will make you and Mrs. Kronborg feel any easier, I'll be glad to take Thea to

Chicago and see that she gets started right. This throat man I speak of is a big fellow in his line, and if I can

get him interested, he may be able to put her in the way of a good many things. At any rate, he'll know the

right teachers. Of course, six hundred dollars won't take her very far, but even half the winter there would be

"Perhaps; I don't doubt it. You are very kind, Dr. Archie." Mr. Kronborg was ornamenting his deskblotter

with hieroglyphics. "I should think Denver might be better. There we could watch over her. She is very

Dr. Archie rose. "Kennedy didn't mention Denver. He said Chicago, repeatedly. Under the circumstances, it

seems to me we ought to try to carry out his wishes ex actly, if Thea is willing."

"Certainly, certainly. Thea is conscientious. She would not waste her opportunities." Mr. Kronborg paused.

"If Thea were your own daughter, doctor, would you consent to such a plan, at her present age?"

"I most certainly should. In fact, if she were my daughter, I'd have sent her away before this. She's a most

unusual child, and she's only wasting herself here. At her age she ought to be learning, not teaching. She'll

"Well, doctor, you had better talk it over with Mrs. Kronborg. I make it a point to defer to her wishes in such

matters. She understands all her children perfectly. I may say that she has all a mother's insight, and more."

Dr. Archie smiled. "Yes, and then some. I feel quite confident about Mrs. Kronborg. We usually agree.

Dr. Archie stepped out into the hot sunshine and walked rapidly toward his office, with a determined look on

his face. He found his waitingroom full of patients, and it was one o'clock before he had dismissed the last

one. Then he shut his door and took a drink before going over to the hotel for his lunch. He smiled as he

locked his cupboard. "I feel almost as gay as if I were going to get away for a winter myself," he thought.

Afterward Thea could never remember much about that summer, or how she lived through her impatience.

She was to set off with Dr. Archie on the fifteenth of Octo ber, and she gave lessons until the first of

September. Then she began to get her clothes ready, and spent whole after noons in the village dressmaker's

stuffy, littered little sew ingroom. Thea and her mother made a trip to Denver to buy the materials for her

dresses. Readymade clothes for girls were not to be had in those days. Miss Spencer, the dressmaker,

declared that she could do handsomely by Thea if they would only let her carry out her own ideas. But Mrs.

Kronborg and Thea felt that Miss Spencer's most daring productions might seem out of place in Chicago, so

they restrained her with a firm hand. Tillie, who always helped Mrs. Kronborg with the family sewing, was

for letting Miss Spencer challenge Chicago on Thea's person. Since Ray Kennedy's death, Thea had become

more than ever one of Tillie's heroines. Tillie swore each of her friends to secrecy, and, coming home from

church or leaning over the fence, told them the most touching stories about Ray's devotion, and how Thea

Tillie's confidences stimulated the general discussion of Thea's venture. This discussion went on, upon front

porches and in back yards, pretty much all summer. Some people approved of Thea's going to Chicago, but

most peo ple did not. There were others who changed their minds about it every day.

Tillie said she wanted Thea to have a ball dress "above all things." She bought a fashion book especially

devoted to evening clothes and looked hungrily over the colored plates, picking out costumes that would be

becoming to "a blonde." She wanted Thea to have all the gay clothes she herself had always longed for;

"Tillie," Thea used to cry impatiently, "can't you see that if Miss Spencer tried to make one of those things,

she'd make me look like a circus girl? Anyhow, I don't know anybody in Chicago. I won't be going to

Tillie always replied with a knowing toss of her head, "You see! You'll be in society before you know it.

On the morning of the fifteenth of October the Kronborg family, all of them but Gus, who couldn't leave the

store, started for the station an hour before train time. Charley had taken Thea's trunk and telescope to the

depot in his delivery wagon early that morning. Thea wore her new blue serge travelingdress, chosen for its

serviceable quali ties. She had done her hair up carefully, and had put a paleblue ribbon around her throat,

under a little lace col lar that Mrs. Kohler had crocheted for her. As they went out of the gate, Mrs.

Kronborg looked her over thought fully. Yes, that blue ribbon went very well with the dress, and with

Thea's eyes. Thea had a rather unusual touch about such things, she reflected comfortably. Tillie al ways

said that Thea was "so indifferent to dress," but her mother noticed that she usually put her clothes on well.

She felt the more at ease about letting Thea go away from home, because she had good sense about her

clothes and never tried to dress up too much. Her coloring was so individual, she was so unusually fair, that

It was a fine morning, and the family set out from the house in good spirits. Thea was quiet and calm. She

had forgotten nothing, and she clung tightly to her handbag, which held her trunkkey and all of her money

that was not in an envelope pinned to her chemise. Thea walked behind the others, holding Thor by the hand,

and this time she did not feel that the procession was too long. Thor was uncommunicative that morning, and

would only talk about how he would rather get a sand bur in his toe every day than wear shoes and stockings.

As they passed the cottonwood grove where Thea often used to bring him in his cart, she asked him who

"Oh, I can walk in our yard," he replied unapprecia tively. "I guess I can make a pond for my duck."

Thea leaned down and looked into his face. "But you won't forget about sister, will you?" Thor shook his

head. "And won't you be glad when sister comes back and can take you over to Mrs. Kohler's to see the

"But you haven't got any little house for one. Maybe Axel would make you a little house."

Thea laughed and squeezed his hand. She always liked his sturdy matteroffactness. Boys ought to be like

When they reached the depot, Mr. Kronborg paced the platform somewhat ceremoniously with his daughter.

Any member of his flock would have gathered that he was giv ing her good counsel about meeting the

temptations of the world. He did, indeed, begin to admonish her not to forget that talents come from our

Heavenly Father and are to be used for his glory, but he cut his remarks short and looked at his watch. He

believed that Thea was a religious girl, but when she looked at him with that intent, that pas sionately

inquiring gaze which used to move even Wunsch, Mr. Kronborg suddenly felt his eloquence fail. Thea was

like her mother, he reflected; you couldn't put much sentiment across with her. As a usual thing, he liked girls

to be a little more responsive. He liked them to blush at his compliments; as Mrs. Kronborg candidly said,

"Father could be very soft with the girls." But this morning he was thinking that hardheadedness was a

Mr. Kronborg believed that big cities were places where people went to lose their identity and to be wicked.

He himself, when he was a student at the Seminaryhe coughed and opened his watch again. He knew, of

course, that a great deal of business went on in Chicago, that there was an active Board of Trade, and that

hogs and cattle were slaughtered there. But when, as a young man, he had stopped over in Chicago, he had

not interested himself in the commercial activities of the city. He remembered it as a place full of cheap

Dr. Archie drove up to the station about ten minutes before the train was due. His man tied the ponies and

stood holding the doctor's alligatorskin bagvery elegant, Thea thought it. Mrs. Kronborg did not burden

the doctor with warnings and cautions. She said again that she hoped he could get Thea a comfortable place

to stay, where they had good beds, and she hoped the landlady would be a woman who'd had children of her

own. "I don't go much on old maids looking after girls," she remarked as she took a pin out of her own hat

and thrust it into Thea's blue turban. "You'll be sure to lose your hatpins on the train, Thea. It's better to have

an extra one in case." She tucked in a little curl that had escaped from Thea's careful twist. "Don't forget to

brush your dress often, and pin it up to the curtains of your berth tonight, so it won't wrinkle. If you get it

She turned Thea about by the shoulders and looked her over a last time. Yes, she looked very well. She

wasn't pretty, exactly,her face was too broad and her nose was too big. But she had that lovely skin, and

she looked fresh and sweet. She had always been a sweetsmelling child. Her mother had always liked to kiss

The train whistled in, and Mr. Kronborg carried the canvas "telescope" into the car. Thea kissed them all

goodbye. Tillie cried, but she was the only one who did. They all shouted things up at the closed window of

the Pull man car, from which Thea looked down at them as from a frame, her face glowing with excitement,

her turban a little tilted in spite of three hatpins. She had already taken off her new gloves to save them. Mrs.

Kronborg reflected that she would never see just that same picture again, and as Thea's car slid off along the

rails, she wiped a tear from her eye. "She won't come back a little girl," Mrs. Kronborg said to her husband as

While the Kronborg family were trooping slowly home ward, Thea was sitting in the Pullman, her telescope

in the seat beside her, her handbag tightly gripped in her fingers. Dr. Archie had gone into the smoker. He

thought she might be a little tearful, and that it would be kinder to leave her alone for a while. Her eyes did

fill once, when she saw the last of the sand hills and realized that she was going to leave them behind for a

long while. They always made her think of Ray, too. She had had such good times with him out there.

But, of course, it was herself and her own adventure that mattered to her. If youth did not matter so much to

itself, it would never have the heart to go on. Thea was sur prised that she did not feel a deeper sense of loss

at leaving her old life behind her. It seemed, on the contrary, as she looked out at the yellow desert speeding

by, that she had left very little. Everything that was essential seemed to be right there in the car with her. She

lacked nothing. She even felt more compact and confident than usual. She was all there, and something else

was there, too,in her heart, was it, or under her cheek? Anyhow, it was about her somewhere, that warm

When Dr. Archie came in from the smoker, she was sit ting still, looking intently out of the window and

smiling, her lips a little parted, her hair in a blaze of sunshine. The doctor thought she was the prettiest thing

he had ever seen, and very funny, with her telescope and big handbag. She made him feel jolly, and a little

mournful, too. He knew that the splendid things of life are few, after all, and so very easy to miss.

THEA and Dr. Archie had been gone from Moonstone four days. On the afternoon of the nineteenth of Octo

ber they were in a streetcar, riding through the depressing, unkept wastes of North Chicago, on their way to

call upon the Reverend Lars Larsen, a friend to whom Mr. Kron borg had written. Thea was still staying at

the rooms of the Young Women's Christian Association, and was miser able and homesick there. The

housekeeper watched her in a way that made her uncomfortable. Things had not gone very well, so far. The

noise and confusion of a big city tired and disheartened her. She had not had her trunk sent to the Christian

Association rooms because she did not want to double cartage charges, and now she was running up a bill for

storage on it. The contents of her gray tele scope were becoming untidy, and it seemed impossible to keep

one's face and hands clean in Chicago. She felt as if she were still on the train, traveling without enough

clothes to keep clean. She wanted another nightgown, and it did not occur to her that she could buy one.

There were other clothes in her trunk that she needed very much, and she seemed no nearer a place to stay

Dr. Archie had gone at once to his friend Hartley Evans, the throat specialist, and had asked him to tell him of

a good piano teacher and direct him to a good boardinghouse. Dr. Evans said he could easily tell him who

was the best piano teacher in Chicago, but that most students' board inghouses were "abominable places,

where girls got poor food for body and mind." He gave Dr. Archie several ad dresses, however, and the

doctor went to look the places over. He left Thea in her room, for she seemed tired and was not at all like

herself. His inspection of boarding houses was not encouraging. The only place that seemed to him at all

desirable was full, and the mistress of the house could not give Thea a room in which she could have a piano.

She said Thea might use the piano in her parlor; but when Dr. Archie went to look at the parlor he found a

girl talking to a young man on one of the corner sofas. Learning that the boarders received all their callers

So when they set out to make the acquaintance of Mr. Larsen on the afternoon he had appointed, the question

of a lodging was still undecided. The Swedish Reform Church was in a sloughy, weedy district, near a group

of factories. The church itself was a very neat little building. The parsonage, next door, looked clean and

comfortable, and there was a wellkept yard about it, with a picket fence. Thea saw several little children

playing under a swing, and wondered why ministers always had so many. When they rang at the parsonage

door, a capablelooking Swedish servant girl answered the bell and told them that Mr. Larsen's study was in

Mr. Larsen received them very cordially. The furniture in his study was so new and the pictures were so

heavily framed, that Thea thought it looked more like the wait ingroom of the fashionable Denver dentist

to whom Dr. Archie had taken her that summer, than like a preacher's study. There were even flowers in a

glass vase on the desk. Mr. Larsen was a small, plump man, with a short, yellow beard, very white teeth, and

a little turnedup nose on which he wore goldrimmed eyeglasses. He looked about thirtyfive, but he was

growing bald, and his thin, hair was parted above his left ear and brought up over the bare spot on the top of

After Dr. Archie and Thea sat down on a slippery leather couch, the minister asked for an outline of Thea's

plans. Dr. Archie explained that she meant to study piano with Andor Harsanyi; that they had already seen

Mr. Larsen lifted his pale eyebrows and rubbed his plump white hands together. "But he is a concert pianist

"That's why Miss Kronborg wants to get a church posi tion if possible. She has not money enough to see her

through the winter. There's no use her coming all the way from Colorado and studying with a secondrate

"Oh, very likely! I have heard him play with Thomas. You Western people do things on a big scale. There are

half a dozen teachers that I should think However, you know what you want." Mr. Larsen showed his

contempt for such extravagant standards by a shrug. He felt that Dr. Archie was trying to impress him. He

had succeeded, indeed, in bringing out the doctor's stiffest manner. Mr. Larsen went on to explain that he

managed the music in his church himself, and drilled his choir, though the tenor was the official choirmaster.

Unfortunately there were no vacancies in his choir just now. He had his four voices, very good ones. He

looked away from Dr. Archie and glanced at Thea. She looked troubled, even a little fright ened when he

said this, and drew in her lower lip. She, cer tainly, was not pretentious, if her protector was. He con tinued

to study her. She was sitting on the lounge, her knees far apart, her gloved hands lying stiffly in her lap, like a

country girl. Her turban, which seemed a little too big for her, had got tilted in the wind,it was always

windy in that part of Chicago,and she looked tired. She wore no veil, and her hair, too, was the worse for

the wind and dust. When he said he had all the voices he required, he noticed that her gloved hands shut

tightly. Mr. Larsen reflected that she was not, after all, responsible for the lofty manner of her father's

physician; that she was not even responsible for her father, whom he remembered as a tire some fellow. As

"All the same, I would like to try your voice," he said, turning pointedly away from her companion. "I am

Mr. Larsen took his violin out of the case and began to tighten the keys. "We might go into the lectureroom

and see how it goes. I can't tell much about a voice by the organ. The violin is really the proper instrument to

try a voice." He opened a door at the back of his study, pushed Thea gently through it, and looking over his

Dr. Archie chuckled. All preachers were alike, officious and on their dignity; liked to deal with women and

girls, but not with men. He took up a thin volume from the minister's desk. To his amusement it proved to be

a book of "Devotional and Kindred Poems; by Mrs. Aurelia S. Larsen." He looked them over, thinking that

the world changed very little. He could remember when the wife of his father's minister had published a

volume of verses, which all the church members had to buy and all the chil dren were encouraged to read.

His grandfather had made a face at the book and said, "Puir body!" Both ladies seemed to have chosen the

same subjects, too: Jephthah's Daughter, Rizpah, David's Lament for Absalom, etc. The doctor found the

The Reverend Lars Larsen was a reactionary Swede. His father came to Iowa in the sixties, married a

Swedish girl who was ambitious, like himself, and they moved to Kansas and took up land under the

Homestead Act. After that, they bought land and leased it from the Government, acquired land in every

possible way. They worked like horses, both of them; indeed, they would never have used any horseflesh

they owned as they used themselves. They reared a large family and worked their sons and daughters as

mercilessly as they worked themselves; all of them but Lars. Lars was the fourth son, and he was born lazy.

He seemed to bear the mark of overstrain on the part of his parents. Even in his cradle he was an example of

physical inertia; anything to lie still. When he was a growing boy his mother had to drag him out of bed every

morning, and he had to be driven to his chores. At school he had a model "attendance record," because he

found getting his lessons easier than farm work. He was the only one of the family who went through the high

school, and by the time he graduated he had already made up his mind to study for the ministry, because it

seemed to him the least labori ous of all callings. In so far as he could see, it was the only business in which

there was practically no competition, in which a man was not all the time pitted against other men who were

willing to work themselves to death. His father stubbornly opposed Lars's plan, but after keeping the boy at

home for a year and finding how useless he was on the farm, he sent him to a theological seminaryas much

to conceal his laziness from the neighbors as because he did not know what else to do with him.

Larsen, like Peter Kronborg, got on well in the ministry, because he got on well with the women. His English

was no worse than that of most young preachers of American parentage, and he made the most of his skill

with the vio lin. He was supposed to exert a very desirable influence over young people and to stimulate

their interest in church work. He married an American girl, and when his father died he got his share of the

propertywhich was very considerable. He invested his money carefully and was that rare thing, a preacher

of independent means. His white, wellkept hands were his result,the evidence that he had worked out his

life successfully in the way that pleased him. His Kansas brothers hated the sight of his hands.

Larsen liked all the softer things of life,in so far as he knew about them. He slept late in the morning, was

fussy about his food, and read a great many novels, preferring sentimental ones. He did not smoke, but he ate

a great deal of candy "for his throat," and always kept a box of chocolate drops in the upper righthand

drawer of his desk. He always bought season tickets for the symphony con certs, and he played his violin

for women's culture clubs. He did not wear cuffs, except on Sunday, because he be lieved that a free wrist

facilitated his violin practice. When he drilled his choir he always held his hand with the little and index

fingers curved higher than the other two, like a noted German conductor he had seen. On the whole, the

Reverend Larsen was not an insincere man; he merely spent his life resting and playing, to make up for the

time his forebears had wasted grubbing in the earth. He was simplehearted and kind; he enjoyed his candy

and his children and his sacred cantatas. He could work energet ically at almost any form of play.

Dr. Archie was deep in "The Lament of Mary Mag dalen," when Mr. Larsen and Thea came back to the

study. From the minister's expression he judged that Thea had succeeded in interesting him.

Mr. Larsen seemed to have forgotten his hostility to ward him, and addressed him frankly as soon as he

entered. He stood holding his violin, and as Thea sat down he pointed to her with his bow:

"I have just been telling Miss Kronborg that though I cannot promise her anything permanent, I might give

her something for the next few months. My soprano is a young married woman and is temporarily

indisposed. She would be glad to be excused from her duties for a while. I like Miss Kronborg's singing very

much, and I think she would benefit by the instruction in my choir. Singing here might very well lead to

something else. We pay our soprano only eight dollars a Sunday, but she always gets ten dollars for singing

at funerals. Miss Kronborg has a sympathetic voice, and I think there would be a good deal of demand for her

at funerals. Several American churches apply to me for a soloist on such occasions, and I could help her to

This sounded lugubrious to Dr. Archie, who had a physi cian's dislike of funerals, but he tried to accept the

"Miss Kronborg tells me she is having some trouble getting located," Mr. Larsen went on with animation,

still holding his violin. "I would advise her to keep away from boardinghouses altogether. Among my

parishioners there are two German women, a mother and daughter. The daughter is a Swede by marriage, and

clings to the Swedish Church. They live near here, and they rent some of their rooms. They have now a large

room vacant, and have asked me to recommend some one. They have never taken boarders, but Mrs. Lorch,

the mother, is a good cook,at least, I am always glad to take supper with her,and I think I could

persuade her to let this young woman partake of the family table. The daughter, Mrs. Andersen, is musical,

too, and sings in the Mozart Society. I think they might like to have a music student in the house. You speak

Dr. Archie noticed that her eyes looked alive again, not frozen as they had looked all morning. "If this fellow

"Do you think you would like to stay in such a quiet place, with oldfashioned people?" Mr. Larsen asked. "I

shouldn't think you could find a better place to work, if that's what you want."

"I think mother would like to have me with people like that," Thea replied. "And I'd be glad to settle down

"Very well, there's no time like the present. Let us go to see Mrs. Lorch and Mrs. Andersen."

The minister put his violin in its case and caught up a blackandwhite checked travelingcap that he wore

SO Thea did not go to a boardinghouse after all. When Dr. Archie left Chicago she was comfortably settled

with Mrs. Lorch, and her happy reunion with her trunk somewhat consoled her for his departure.

Mrs. Lorch and her daughter lived half a mile from the Swedish Reform Church, in an old square frame

house, with a porch supported by frail pillars, set in a damp yard full of big lilac bushes. The house, which

had been left over from country times, needed paint badly, and looked gloomy and despondent among its

smart Queen Anne neighbors. There was a big back yard with two rows of apple trees and a grape arbor, and

a warped walk, two planks wide, which led to the coal bins at the back of the lot. Thea's room was on the

second floor, overlooking this back yard, and she understood that in the winter she must carry up her own

coal and kindling from the bin. There was no fur nace in the house, no running water except in the kitchen,

and that was why the room rent was small. All the rooms were heated by stoves, and the lodgers pumped the

water they needed from the cistern under the porch, or from the well at the entrance of the grape arbor. Old

Mrs. Lorch could never bring herself to have costly improvements made in her house; indeed she had very

little money. She preferred to keep the house just as her husband built it, and she thought her way of living

Thea's room was large enough to admit a rented upright piano without crowding. It was, the widowed

daughter said, "a double room that had always before been occupied by two gentlemen"; the piano now took

the place of a second occupant. There was an ingrain carpet on the floor, green ivy leaves on a red ground,

and clumsy, oldfashioned walnut furniture. The bed was very wide, and the mat tress thin and hard. Over

the fat pillows were "shams" embroidered in Turkey red, each with a flowering scrollone with "Gute'

Nacht," the other with "Guten Morgen." The dresser was so big that Thea wondered how it had ever been got

into the house and up the narrow stairs. Besides an old horsehair armchair, there were two low plush

"springrockers," against the massive pedestals of which one was always stumbling in the dark. Thea sat in

the dark a good deal those first weeks, and sometimes a painful bump against one of those brutally

immovable pedestals roused her temper and pulled her out of a heavy hour. The wallpaper was brownish

yellow, with blue flowers. When it was put on, the carpet, certainly, had not been consulted. There was only

one picture on the wall when Thea moved in: a large colored print of a brightly lighted church in a

snowstorm, on Christmas Eve, with greens hanging about the stone doorway and arched windows. There

was something warm and home, like about this picture, and Thea grew fond of it. One day, on her way into

town to take her lesson, she stopped at a bookstore and bought a photograph of the Naples bust of Julius

Caesar. This she had framed, and hung it on the big bare wall behind her stove. It was a curious choice, but

she was at the age when people do inexplicable things. She had been interested in Caesar's "Commen taries"

when she left school to begin teaching, and she loved to read about great generals; but these facts would

scarcely explain her wanting that grim bald head to share her daily existence. It seemed a strange freak, when

she bought so few things, and when she had, as Mrs. Andersen said to Mrs. Lorch, "no pictures of the

Both the widows were kind to her, but Thea liked the mother better. Old Mrs. Lorch was fat and jolly, with a

red face, always shining as if she had just come from the stove, bright little eyes, and hair of several colors.

Her own hair was one cast of irongray, her switch another, and her false front still another. Her clothes

always smelled of savory cooking, except when she was dressed for church or KAFFEEKLATSCH, and then

she smelled of bay rum or of the lemonverbena sprig which she tucked inside her puffy black kid glove. Her

cooking justified all that Mr. Larsen had said of it, and Thea had never been so well nourished before.

The daughter, Mrs. Andersen,Irene, her mother called her,was a different sort of woman altogether. She

was perhaps forty years old, angular, bigboned, with large, thin features, lightblue eyes, and dry, yellow

hair, the bang tightly frizzed. She was pale, anaemic, and senti mental. She had married the youngest son of

a rich, arro gant Swedish family who were lumber merchants in St. Paul. There she dwelt during her

married life. Oscar Andersen was a strong, fullblooded fellow who had counted on a long life and had been

rather careless about his busi ness affairs. He was killed by the explosion of a steam boiler in the mills, and

his brothers managed to prove that he had very little stock in the big business. They had strongly disapproved

of his marriage and they agreed among themselves that they were entirely justified in de frauding his

widow, who, they said, "would only marry again and give some fellow a good thing of it." Mrs. Ander sen

would not go to law with the family that had always snubbed and wounded hershe felt the humiliation of

be ing thrust out more than she felt her impoverishment; so she went back to Chicago to live with her

widowed mother on an income of five hundred a year. This experience had given her sentimental nature an

incurable hurt. Something withered away in her. Her head had a downward droop; her step was soft and

apologetic, even in her mother's house, and her smile had the sickly, uncertain flicker that so often comes

from a secret humiliation. She was affable and yet shrinking, like one who has come down in the world, who

has known better clothes, better carpets, bet ter people, brighter hopes. Her husband was buried in the

Andersen lot in St. Paul, with a locked iron fence around it. She had to go to his eldest brother for the key

when she went to say goodbye to his grave. She clung to the Swedish Church because it had been her

As her mother had no room for her household belongings, Mrs. Andersen had brought home with her only

her bed room set, which now furnished her own room at Mrs. Lorch's. There she spent most of her time,

doing fancy work or writing letters to sympathizing German friends in St. Paul, surrounded by keepsakes

and photographs of the burly Oscar Andersen. Thea, when she was admitted to this room, and shown these

photographs, found her self wondering, like the Andersen family, why such a lusty, gaylooking fellow

ever thought he wanted this pallid, longcheeked woman, whose manner was always that of withdrawing,

Mrs. Andersen was certainly a depressing person. It sometimes annoyed Thea very much to hear her

insinuat ing knock on the door, her flurried explanation of why she had come, as she backed toward the

stairs. Mrs. Andersen admired Thea greatly. She thought it a distinction to be even a "temporary

soprano"Thea called herself so quite seriouslyin the Swedish Church. She also thought it distinguished

to be a pupil of Harsanyi's. She considered Thea very handsome, very Swedish, very talented. She fluttered

about the upper floor when Thea was practicing. In short, she tried to make a heroine of her, just as Tillie

Kronborg had always done, and Thea was conscious of something of the sort. When she was working and

heard Mrs. Andersen tiptoeing past her door, she used to shrug her shoulders and wonder whether she was

At the dressmaker's Mrs. Andersen recalled Tillie even more painfully. After her first Sunday in Mr. Larsen's

choir, Thea saw that she must have a proper dress for morning service. Her Moonstone party dress might do

to wear in the evening, but she must have one frock that could stand the light of day. She, of course, knew

nothing about Chicago dressmakers, so she let Mrs. Andersen take her to a German woman whom she

recommended warmly. The German dressmaker was excitable and dramatic. Concert dresses, she said, were

her specialty. In her fittingroom there were photographs of singers in the dresses she had made them for this

or that SANGERFEST. She and Mrs. An dersen together achieved a costume which would have warmed

Tillie Kronborg's heart. It was clearly intended for a woman of forty, with violent tastes. There seemed to be

a piece of every known fabric in it somewhere. When it came home, and was spread out on her huge bed,

Thea looked it over and told herself candidly that it was "a horror." However, her money was gone, and there

was nothing to do but make the best of the dress. She never wore it except, as she said, "to sing in," as if it

were an unbecoming uniform. When Mrs. Lorch and Irene told her that she "looked like a little

birdofParadise in it," Thea shut her teeth and repeated to herself words she had learned from Joe Giddy

In these two good women Thea found faithful friends, and in their house she found the quiet and peace which

ANDOR HARSANYI had never had a pupil in the least like Thea Kronborg. He had never had one more

intelligent, and he had never had one so ignorant. When Thea sat down to take her first lesson from him, she

had never heard a work by Beethoven or a composition by Chopin. She knew their names vaguely. Wunsch

had been a musician once, long before he wandered into Moon stone, but when Thea awoke his interest

there was not much left of him. From him Thea had learned something about the works of Gluck and Bach,

and he used to play her some of the compositions of Schumann. In his trunk he had a mutilated score of the F

sharp minor sonata, which he had heard Clara Schumann play at a festival in Leipsic. Though his powers of

execution were at such a low ebb, he used to play at this sonata for his pupil and managed to give her some

idea of its beauty. When Wunsch was a young man, it was still daring to like Schumann; enthusiasm for his

work was considered an expression of youthful wayward ness. Perhaps that was why Wunsch remembered

him best. Thea studied some of the KINDERSZENEN with him, as well as some little sonatas by Mozart and

Harsanyi found in Thea a pupil with sure, strong hands, one who read rapidly and intelligently, who had, he

felt, a richly gifted nature. But she had been given no direction, and her ardor was unawakened. She had

never heard a symphony orchestra. The literature of the piano was an undiscovered world to her. He

wondered how she had been able to work so hard when she knew so little of what she was working toward.

She had been taught according to the old Stuttgart method; stiff back, stiff elbows, a very formal position of

the hands. The best thing about her prepara tion was that she had developed an unusual power of work. He

noticed at once her way of charging at difficulties. She ran to meet them as if they were foes she had long

been seeking, seized them as if they were destined for her and she for them. Whatever she did well, she took

for granted. Her eagerness aroused all the young Hungarian's chivalry. Instinctively one went to the rescue of

a creature who had so much to overcome and who struggled so hard. He used to tell his wife that Miss

Kronborg's hour took more out of him than half a dozen other lessons. He usually kept her long over time; he

changed her lessons about so that he could do so, and often gave her time at the end of the day, when he

could talk to her afterward and play for her a little from what he happened to be studying. It was always

interesting to play for her. Sometimes she was so silent that he wondered, when she left him, whether she had

got anything out of it. But a week later, two weeks later, she would give back his idea again in a way that set

All this was very well for Harsanyi; an interesting varia tion in the routine of teaching. But for Thea

Kronborg, that winter was almost beyond enduring. She always re membered it as the happiest and wildest

and saddest of her life. Things came too fast for her; she had not had enough preparation. There were times

when she came home from her lesson and lay upon her bed hating Wunsch and her family, hating a world

that had let her grow up so ignorant; when she wished that she could die then and there, and be born over

again to begin anew. She said something of this kind once to her teacher, in the midst of a bitter struggle.

Harsanyi turned the light of his wonderful eye upon her poor fellow, he had but one, though that was set in

such a handsome headand said slowly: "Every artist makes himself born. It is very much harder than the

other time, and longer. Your mother did not bring anything into the world to play piano. That you must bring

This comforted Thea temporarily, for it seemed to give her a chance. But a great deal of the time she was

com fortless. Her letters to Dr. Archie were brief and business like. She was not apt to chatter much, even

in the stim ulating company of people she liked, and to chatter on paper was simply impossible for her. If

she tried to write him anything definite about her work, she immediately scratched it out as being only

partially true, or not true at all. Nothing that she could say about her studies seemed unqualifiedly true, once

Late one afternoon, when she was thoroughly tired and wanted to struggle on into the dusk, Harsanyi, tired

too, threw up his hands and laughed at her. "Not today, Miss Kronborg. That sonata will keep; it won't run

Thea turned to him fiercely. "No, it isn't here unless I have itnot for me," she cried passionately. "Only

Harsanyi made no reply. He took a deep breath and sat down again. "The second movement now, quietly,

There were hours, too, of great exaltation; when she was at her best and became a part of what she was doing

and ceased to exist in any other sense. There were other times when she was so shattered by ideas that she

could do noth ing worth while; when they trampled over her like an army and she felt as if she were

bleeding to death under them. She sometimes came home from a late lesson so exhausted that she could eat

no supper. If she tried to eat, she was ill afterward. She used to throw herself upon the bed and lie there in the

dark, not thinking, not feeling, but evapo rating. That same night, perhaps, she would waken up rested and

calm, and as she went over her work in her mind, the passages seemed to become something of themselves,

to take a sort of pattern in the darkness. She had never learned to work away from the piano until she came to

She almost never worked now with the sunny, happy contentment that had filled the hours when she worked

with Wunsch"like a fat horse turning a sorgum mill," she said bitterly to herself. Then, by sticking to it,

she could always do what she set out to do. Now, every thing that she really wanted was impossible; a

CANTABILE like Harsanyi's, for instance, instead of her own cloudy tone. No use telling her she might have

it in ten years. She wanted it now. She wondered how she had ever found other things interesting: books,

"Anna Karenina"all that seemed so unreal and on the outside of things. She was not born a musician, she

Sometimes she got so nervous at the piano that she left it, and snatching up her hat and cape went out and

walked, hurrying through the streets like Christian fleeing from the City of Destruction. And while she

walked she cried. There was scarcely a street in the neighborhood that she had not cried up and down before

that winter was over. The thing that used to lie under her cheek, that sat so warmly over her heart when she

glided away from the sand hills that autumn morning, was far from her. She had come to Chicago to be with

it, and it had deserted her, leaving in its place a painful longing, an unresigned despair.

Harsanyi knew that his interesting pupil"the sav age blonde," one of his male students called herwas

sometimes very unhappy. He saw in her discontent a curious definition of character. He would have said that

a girl with so much musical feeling, so intelligent, with good training of eye and hand, would, when thus

suddenly in troduced to the great literature of the piano, have found boundless happiness. But he soon

learned that she was not able to forget her own poverty in the richness of the world he opened to her. Often

when he played to her, her face was the picture of restless misery. She would sit crouching forward, her

elbows on her knees, her brows drawn together and her graygreen eyes smaller than ever, reduced to mere

pinpoints of cold, piercing light. Some times, while she listened, she would swallow hard, two or three

times, and look nervously from left to right, drawing her shoulders together. "Exactly," he thought, "as if she

On the other hand, when she came several times to see Mrs. Harsanyi and the two babies, she was like a little

girl, jolly and gay and eager to play with the children, who loved her. The little daughter, Tanya, liked to

touch Miss Kronborg's yellow hair and pat it, saying, "Dolly, dolly," because it was of a color much oftener

seen on dolls than on people. But if Harsanyi opened the piano and sat down to play, Miss Kronborg

gradually drew away from the chil dren, retreated to a corner and became sullen or troubled. Mrs. Harsanyi

Another thing that puzzled Harsanyi was Thea's ap parent lack of curiosity. Several times he offered to give

her tickets to concerts, but she said she was too tired or that it "knocked her out to be up late." Harsanyi did

not know that she was singing in a choir, and had often to sing at funerals, neither did he realize how much

her work with him stirred her and exhausted her. Once, just as she was leaving his studio, he called her back

and told her he could give her some tickets that had been sent him for Emma Juch that evening. Thea fingered

the black wool on the edge of her plush cape and replied, "Oh, thank you, Mr. Harsanyi, but I have to wash

Mrs. Harsanyi liked Miss Kronborg thoroughly. She saw in her the making of a pupil who would reflect

credit upon Harsanyi. She felt that the girl could be made to look strikingly handsome, and that she had the

kind of per sonality which takes hold of audiences. Moreover, Miss Kronborg was not in the least

sentimental about her hus band. Sometimes from the show pupils one had to endure a good deal. "I like that

girl," she used to say, when Harsanyi told her of one of Thea's GAUCHERIES. "She doesn't sigh every time

Thea told them very little about herself. She was not naturally communicative, and she found it hard to feel

confidence in new people. She did not know why, but she could not talk to Harsanyi as she could to Dr.

Archie, or to Johnny and Mrs. Tellamantez. With Mr. Larsen she felt more at home, and when she was

walking she sometimes stopped at his study to eat candy with him or to hear the plot of the novel he

One evening toward the middle of December Thea was to dine with the Harsanyis. She arrived early, to have

time to play with the children before they went to bed. Mrs. Harsanyi took her into her own room and helped

her take off her country "fascinator" and her clumsy plush cape. Thea had bought this cape at a big

department store and had paid $16.50 for it. As she had never paid more than ten dollars for a coat before,

that seemed to her a large price. It was very heavy and not very warm, orna mented with a showy pattern in

black disks, and trimmed around the collar and the edges with some kind of black wool that "crocked" badly

in snow or rain. It was lined with a cotton stuff called "farmer's satin." Mrs. Harsanyi was one woman in a

thousand. As she lifted this cape from Thea's shoulders and laid it on her white bed, she wished that her

husband did not have to charge pupils like this one for their lessons. Thea wore her Moonstone party dress,

white organdie, made with a "V" neck and elbow sleeves, and a blue sash. She looked very pretty in it, and

around her throat she had a string of pink coral and tiny white shells that Ray once brought her from Los

Angeles. Mrs. Harsanyi noticed that she wore high heavy shoes which needed blacking. The choir in Mr.

Larsen's church stood behind a railing, so Thea did not pay much attention to her shoes.

"You have nothing to do to your hair," Mrs. Harsanyi said kindly, as Thea turned to the mirror. "However it

Thea glanced awkwardly away from her and looked stern, but Mrs. Harsanyi knew that she was pleased.

They went into the livingroom, behind the studio, where the two children were playing on the big rug before

the coal grate. Andor, the boy, was six, a sturdy, handsome child, and the little girl was four. She came

tripping to meet Thea, looking like a little doll in her white net dressher mother made all her clothes. Thea

picked her up and hugged her. Mrs. Harsanyi excused herself and went to the diningroom. She kept only

one maid and did a good deal of the housework herself, besides cooking her husband's favorite dishes for

him. She was still under thirty, a slender, graceful woman, gracious, intelligent, and capable. She adapted

herself to circumstances with a wellbred ease which solved many of her husband's difficulties, and kept him,

as he said, from feeling cheap and down at the heel. No musician ever had a better wife. Unfortunately her

beauty was of a very frail and impressionable kind, and she was beginning to lose it. Her face was too thin

Left alone with the children, Thea sat down on Tanya's little chairshe would rather have sat on the floor,

but was afraid of rumpling her dressand helped them play "cars" with Andor's iron railway set. She

showed him new ways to lay his tracks and how to make switches, set up his Noah's ark village for stations

and packed the ani mals in the open coal cars to send them to the stockyards. They worked out their

shipment so realistically that when Andor put the two little reindeer into the stock car, Tanya snatched them

Harsanyi came in, jaded and tired, and asked Thea to go on with her game, as he was not equal to talking

much before dinner. He sat down and made pretense of glancing at the evening paper, but he soon dropped it.

After the railroad began to grow tiresome, Thea went with the child ren to the lounge in the corner, and

played for them the game with which she used to amuse Thor for hours to gether behind the parlor stove at

home, making shadow pictures against the wall with her hands. Her fingers were very supple, and she could

make a duck and a cow and a sheep and a fox and a rabbit and even an elephant. Har sanyi, from his low

chair, watched them, smiling. The boy was on his knees, jumping up and down with the excite ment of

guessing the beasts, and Tanya sat with her feet tucked under her and clapped her frail little hands. Thea's

profile, in the lamplight, teased his fancy. Where had he seen a head like it before?

When dinner was announced, little Andor took Thea's hand and walked to the diningroom with her. The

chil dren always had dinner with their parents and behaved very nicely at table. "Mamma," said Andor

seriously as he climbed into his chair and tucked his napkin into the collar of his blouse, "Miss Kronborg's

When Thea dined at the Harsanyis before, she noticed that there was an intense suspense from the moment

they took their places at the table until the master of the house had tasted the soup. He had a theory that if the

soup went well, the dinner would go well; but if the soup was poor, all was lost. Tonight he tasted his soup

and smiled, and Mrs. Harsanyi sat more easily in her chair and turned her attention to Thea. Thea loved their

dinner table, be cause it was lighted by candles in silver candlesticks, and she had never seen a table so

lighted anywhere else. There were always flowers, too. Tonight there was a little orange tree, with oranges

on it, that one of Harsanyi's pupils had sent him at Thanksgiving time. After Harsanyi had finished his soup

and a glass of red Hungarian wine, he lost his fagged look and became cordial and witty. He persuaded Thea

to drink a little wine tonight. The first time she dined with them, when he urged her to taste the glass of

sherry beside her plate, she astonished them by telling them that she "never drank."

Harsanyi was then a man of thirtytwo. He was to have a very brilliant career, but he did not know it then.

Theodore Thomas was perhaps the only man in Chicago who felt that Harsanyi might have a great future.

Har sanyi belonged to the softer Slavic type, and was more like a Pole than a Hungarian. He was tall,

slender, active, with sloping, graceful shoulders and long arms. His head was very fine, strongly and

delicately modelled, and, as Thea put it, "so independent." A lock of his thick brown hair usually hung over

his forehead. His eye was wonderful; full of light and fire when he was interested, soft and thoughtful when

he was tired or melancholy. The mean ing and power of two very fine eyes must all have gone into this

onethe right one, fortunately, the one next his audience when he played. He believed that the glass eye

which gave one side of his face such a dull, blind look, had ruined his career, or rather had made a career

impos sible for him. Harsanyi lost his eye when he was twelve years old, in a Pennsylvania mining town

where explo sives happened to be kept too near the frame shanties in which the company packed newly

His father was a musician and a good one, but he had cruelly overworked the boy; keeping him at the piano

for six hours a day and making him play in cafes and dance halls for half the night. Andor ran away and

crossed the ocean with an uncle, who smuggled him through the port as one of his own many children. The

explosion in which Andor was hurt killed a score of people, and he was thought lucky to get off with an eye.

He still had a clip ping from a Pittsburg paper, giving a list of the dead and injured. He appeared as

"Harsanyi, Andor, left eye and slight injuries about the head." That was his first American "notice"; and he

kept it. He held no grudge against the coal company; he understood that the acci dent was merely one of the

things that are bound to hap pen in the general scramble of American life, where every one comes to grab

While they were eating dessert, Thea asked Harsanyi if she could change her Tuesday lesson from afternoon

to morning. "I have to be at a choir rehearsal in the after noon, to get ready for the Christmas music, and I

Harsanyi put down his fork and looked up. "A choir rehearsal? You sing in a church?"

"Ever since I came. I had to get a position of some kind," Thea explained, flushing, "and the preacher took

me on. He runs the choir himself. He knew my father, and I guess he took me to oblige."

Harsanyi tapped the tablecloth with the ends of his fingers. "But why did you never tell us? Why are you so

Thea looked shyly at him from under her brows. "Well, it's certainly not very interesting. It's only a little

"I like it well enough, but, of course, I don't know any thing about singing. I guess that's why I never said

any thing about it. Anybody that's got a voice can sing in a little church like that."

Harsanyi laughed softlya little scornfully, Thea thought. "So you have a voice, have you?"

Thea hesitated, looked intently at the candles and then at Harsanyi. "Yes," she said firmly; "I have got some,

"Good girl," said Mrs. Harsanyi, nodding and smiling at Thea. "You must let us hear you sing after dinner."

This remark seemingly closed the subject, and when the coffee was brought they began to talk of other

things. Harsanyi asked Thea how she happened to know so much about the way in which freight trains are

operated, and she tried to give him some idea of how the people in little desert towns live by the railway and

order their lives by the coming and going of the trains. When they left the dining room the children were

sent to bed and Mrs. Harsanyi took Thea into the studio. She and her husband usually sat there in the evening.

Although their apartment seemed so elegant to Thea, it was small and cramped. The studio was the only

spacious room. The Harsanyis were poor, and it was due to Mrs. Harsanyi's good management that their

lives, even in hard times, moved along with dignity and order. She had long ago found out that bills or debts

of any kind frightened her husband and crippled his working power. He said they were like bars on the

windows, and shut out the future; they meant that just so many hundred dollars' worth of his life was

debilitated and exhausted before he got to it. So Mrs. Harsanyi saw to it that they never owed anything.

Harsanyi was not extravagant, though he was sometimes careless about money. Quiet and order and his wife's

good taste were the things that meant most to him. After these, good food, good cigars, a little good wine. He

wore his clothes until they were shabby, until his wife had to ask the tailor to come to the house and mea

sure him for new ones. His neckties she usually made her self, and when she was in shops she always kept

her eye open for silks in very dull or pale shades, grays and olives, warm blacks and browns.

When they went into the studio Mrs. Harsanyi took up her embroidery and Thea sat down beside her on a low

stool, her hands clasped about her knees. While his wife and his pupil talked, Harsanyi sank into a CHAISE

LONGUE in which he sometimes snatched a few moments' rest between his lessons, and smoked. He sat well

out of the circle of the lamplight, his feet to the fire. His feet were slender and well shaped, always elegantly

shod. Much of the grace of his movements was due to the fact that his feet were almost as sure and flexible as

his hands. He listened to the con versation with amusement. He admired his wife's tact and kindness with

crude young people; she taught them so much without seeming to be instructing. When the clock struck nine,

Harsanyi rose and flung away his cigarette. "Not yet. We have just begun the evening. Now you are going to

sing for us. I have been waiting for you to recover from dinner. Come, what shall it be?" he crossed to the

Thea laughed and shook her head, locking her elbows still tighter about her knees. "Thank you, Mr. Harsanyi,

but if you really make me sing, I'll accompany myself. You couldn't stand it to play the sort of things I have

As Harsanyi still pointed to the chair at the piano, she left her stool and went to it, while he returned to his

CHAISE LONGUE. Thea looked at the keyboard uneasily for a mo ment, then she began "Come, ye

Disconsolate," the hymn Wunsch had always liked to hear her sing. Mrs. Harsanyi glanced questioningly at

her husband, but he was looking intently at the toes of his boots, shading his forehead with his long white

hand. When Thea finished the hymn she did not turn around, but immediately began "The Ninety and Nine."

Mrs. Harsanyi kept trying to catch her hus band's eye; but his chin only sank lower on his collar.

Thea turned on the chair and grinned. "That's about enough, isn't it? That song got me my job. The preacher

said it was sympathetic," she minced the word, remember ing Mr. Larsen's manner.

Harsanyi drew himself up in his chair, resting his elbows on the low arms. "Yes? That is better suited to your

voice. Your upper tones are good, above G. I must teach you some songs. Don't you know

Thea shook her head ruefully. "I'm afraid I don't. Let me see Perhaps," she turned to the piano and put her

hands on the keys. "I used to sing this for Mr. Wunsch a long while ago. It's for contralto, but I'll try it." She

frowned at the keyboard a moment, played the few in troductory measures, and began

She had not sung it for a long time, and it came back like an old friendship. When she finished, Harsanyi

sprang from his chair and dropped lightly upon his toes, a kind of ENTRECHAT that he sometimes

executed when he formed a sudden resolution, or when he was about to follow a pure intuition, against

reason. His wife said that when he gave that spring he was shot from the bow of his ancestors, and now when

he left his chair in that manner she knew he was intensely interested. He went quickly to the piano.

"Sing that again. There is nothing the matter with your low voice, my girl. I will play for you. Let your voice

out." Without looking at her he began the accom paniment. Thea drew back her shoulders, relaxed them

When she finished the aria, Harsanyi beckoned her nearer. "Sing AHAH for me, as I indicate." He kept his

right hand on the keyboard and put his left to her throat, placing the tips of his delicate fingers over her

larynx. "Again,until your breath is gone. Trill between the two tones, always; good! Again;

excellent! Now up,stay there. E and F. Not so good, is it? F is always a hard one. Now, try the

halftone. That's right, nothing difficult about it. Now, pianissimo, AH AH. Now, swell it,

AHAH. Again, follow my hand. Now, carry it down. Anybody ever tell you anything about your

Harsanyi smiled. "So you have, so you have. That was what I meant. Now, once more; carry it up and then

down, AHAH." He put his hand back to her throat and sat with his head bent, his one eye closed. He loved

to hear a big voice throb in a relaxed, natural throat, and he was thinking that no one had ever felt this voice

vibrate before. It was like a wild bird that had flown into his studio on Middleton Street from goodness knew

how far! No one knew that it had come, or even that it existed; least of all the strange, crude girl in whose

throat it beat its passionate wings. What a simple thing it was, he re flected; why had he never guessed it

before? Everything about her indicated it,the big mouth, the wide jaw and chin, the strong white teeth, the

deep laugh. The machine was so simple and strong, seemed to be so easily operated. She sang from the

bottom of herself. Her breath came from down where her laugh came from, the deep laugh which Mrs.

Harsanyi had once called "the laugh of the people." A relaxed throat, a voice that lay on the breath, that had

never been forced off the breath; it rose and fell in the aircolumn like the little balls which are put to shine in

the jet of a fountain. The voice did not thin as it went up; the upper tones were as full and rich as the lower,

At last Harsanyi threw back his head and rose. "You must be tired, Miss Kronborg."

When she replied, she startled him; he had forgotten how hard and full of burs her speaking voice was. "No,"

Harsanyi pushed back his hair with a nervous hand. "I don't know much about the voice, but I shall take

liberties and teach you some good songs. I think you have a very interesting voice."

"I'm glad if you like it. Goodnight, Mr. Harsanyi." Thea went with Mrs. Harsanyi to get her wraps.

When Mrs. Harsanyi came back to her husband, she found him walking restlessly up and down the room.

"I scarcely know what to think. All I really know about that girl is that she tires me to death. We must not

have her often. If I did not have my living to make, then" he dropped into a chair and closed his eyes.

AFTER that evening Thea's work with Harsanyi changed somewhat. He insisted that she should study some

songs with him, and after almost every lesson he gave up half an hour of his own time to practicing them with

her. He did not pretend to know much about voice production, but so far, he thought, she had acquired no

really injurious habits. A healthy and powerful organ had found its own method, which was not a bad one. He

wished to find out a good deal before he recommended a vocal teacher. He never told Thea what he thought

about her voice, and made her general ignorance of anything worth singing his pretext for the trouble he took.

That was in the beginning. After the first few lessons his own pleasure and hers were pretext enough. The

singing came at the end of the lesson hour, and they both treated it as a form of relaxation.

Harsanyi did not say much even to his wife about his discovery. He brooded upon it in a curious way. He

found that these unscientific singing lessons stimulated him in his own study. After Miss Kronborg left him

he often lay down in his studio for an hour before dinner, with his head full of musical ideas, with an

effervescence in his brain which he had sometimes lost for weeks together un der the grind of teaching. He

had never got so much back for himself from any pupil as he did from Miss Kronborg. From the first she had

stimulated him; something in her personality invariably affected him. Now that he was feeling his way

toward her voice, he found her more in teresting than ever before. She lifted the tedium of the winter for

him, gave him curious fancies and reveries. Musically, she was sympathetic to him. Why all this was true, he

never asked himself. He had learned that one must take where and when one can the mysterious mental ir

ritant that rouses one's imagination; that it is not to be had by order. She often wearied him, but she never

bored him. Under her crudeness and brusque hardness, he felt there was a nature quite different, of which he

never got so much as a hint except when she was at the piano, or when she sang. It was toward this hidden

creature that he was trying, for his own pleasure, to find his way. In short, Harsanyi looked forward to his

hour with Thea for the same reason that poor Wunsch had sometimes dreaded his; because she stirred him

One afternoon Harsanyi, after the lesson, was standing by the window putting some collodion on a cracked

finger, and Thea was at the piano trying over "Die Lorelei" which he had given her last week to practice. It

was scarcely a song which a singing master would have given her, but he had his own reasons. How she sang

it mattered only to him and to her. He was playing his own game now, without interference; he suspected that

When she finished the song, she looked back over her shoulder at him and spoke thoughtfully. "That wasn't

"No, that should be an open, flowing tone, something like this,"he waved his fingers rapidly in the air.

Harsanyi corked his little bottle and dropped it into the pocket of his velvet coat. "Why so? Shipwrecks come

and go, MARCHEN come and go, but the river keeps right on. There you have your open, flowing tone."

Thea looked intently at the music. "I see," she said dully. "Oh, I see!" she repeated quickly and turned to him

a glowing countenance. "It is the river. Oh, yes, I get it now!" She looked at him but long enough to catch

his glance, then turned to the piano again. Harsanyi was never quite sure where the light came from when her

face suddenly flashed out at him in that way. Her eyes were too small to account for it, though they glittered

like green ice in the sun. At such moments her hair was yellower, her skin whiter, her cheeks pinker, as if a

A kind of happiness vibrated in her voice. Harsanyi no ticed how much and how unhesitatingly she changed

her delivery of the whole song, the first part as well as the last. He had often noticed that she could not think a

thing out in passages. Until she saw it as a whole, she wandered like a blind man surrounded by torments.

After she once had her "revelation," after she got the idea that to hernot always to himexplained

everything, then she went for ward rapidly. But she was not always easy to help. She was sometimes

impervious to suggestion; she would stare at him as if she were deaf and ignore everything he told her to do.

Then, all at once, something would happen in her brain and she would begin to do all that he had been for

Tonight Thea forgot Harsanyi and his finger. She finished the song only to begin it with fresh enthusiasm.

She sat there singing it until the darkening room was so flooded with it that Harsanyi threw open a window.

"You really must stop it, Miss Kronborg. I shan't be able to get it out of my head tonight."

Thea laughed tolerantly as she began to gather up her music. "Why, I thought you had gone, Mr. Harsanyi. I

That evening at dinner Harsanyi sat looking intently into a glass of heavy yellow wine; boring into it, indeed,

He smiled again, this time at her, and took up the nut crackers and a Brazil nut. "Do you know," he said in a

tone so intimate and confidential that he might have been speaking to himself,"do you know, I like to see

Miss Kronborg get hold of an idea. In spite of being so talented, she's not quick. But when she does get an

idea, it fills her up to the eyes. She had my room so reeking of a song this afternoon that I couldn't stay

Mrs. Harsanyi looked up quickly, "`Die Lorelei,' you mean? One couldn't think of anything else anywhere in

the house. I thought she was possessed. But don't you think her voice is wonderful sometimes?"

Harsanyi tasted his wine slowly. "My dear, I've told you before that I don't know what I think about Miss

Kronborg, except that I'm glad there are not two of her. I sometimes wonder whether she is not glad. Fresh as

she is at it all, I've occasionally fancied that, if she knew how, she would like todiminish." He moved his

left hand out into the air as if he were suggesting a DIMINUENDO to an orchestra.

BY the first of February Thea had been in Chicago al most four months, and she did not know much more

about the city than if she had never quitted Moonstone. She was, as Harsanyi said, incurious. Her work took

most of her time, and she found that she had to sleep a good deal. It had never before been so hard to get up

in the morning. She had the bother of caring for her room, and she had to build her fire and bring up her coal.

Her routine was frequently interrupted by a message from Mr. Larsen summoning her to sing at a funeral.

Every funeral took half a day, and the time had to be made up. When Mrs. Harsanyi asked her if it did not

depress her to sing at fu nerals, she replied that she "had been brought up to go to funerals and didn't mind."

Thea never went into shops unless she had to, and she felt no interest in them. Indeed, she shunned them, as

places where one was sure to be parted from one's money in some way. She was nervous about counting her

change, and she could not accustom herself to having her purchases sent to her address. She felt much safer

During this first winter Thea got no city consciousness. Chicago was simply a wilderness through which one

had to find one's way. She felt no interest in the general briskness and zest of the crowds. The crash and

scramble of that big, rich, appetent Western city she did not take in at all, except to notice that the noise of the

drays and streetcars tired her. The brilliant window displays, the splendid furs and stuffs, the gorgeous

flowershops, the gay candyshops, she scarcely noticed. At Christmastime she did feel some curiosity

about the toystores, and she wished she held Thor's little mittened fist in her hand as she stood before the

windows. The jewelers' windows, too, had a strong attraction for hershe had always liked bright stones.

When she went into the city she used to brave the biting lake winds and stand gazing in at the displays of

diamonds and pearls and emeralds; the tiaras and necklaces and ear rings, on white velvet. These seemed

Mrs. Lorch and Mrs. Andersen often told each other it was strange that Miss Kronborg had so little initiative

about "visiting points of interest." When Thea came to live with them she had expressed a wish to see two

places: Montgomery Ward and Company's big mailorder store, and the packinghouses, to which all the

hogs and cattle that went through Moonstone were bound. One of Mrs. Lorch's lodgers worked in a

packinghouse, and Mrs. Andersen brought Thea word that she had spoken to Mr. Eckman and he would

gladly take her to Packing town. Eckman was a toughish young Swede, and he thought it would be

something of a lark to take a pretty girl through the slaughterhouses. But he was disap pointed. Thea

neither grew faint nor clung to the arm he kept offering her. She asked innumerable questions and was

impatient because he knew so little of what was going on outside of his own department. When they got off

the streetcar and walked back to Mrs. Lorch's house in the dusk, Eckman put her hand in his overcoat

pocketshe had no muffand kept squeezing it ardently until she said, "Don't do that; my ring cuts me."

That night he told his roommate that he "could have kissed her as easy as rolling off a log, but she wasn't

worth the trouble." As for Thea, she had enjoyed the afternoon very much, and wrote her father a brief but

One night at supper Mrs. Andersen was talking about the exhibit of students' work she had seen at the Art In

stitute that afternoon. Several of her friends had sketches in the exhibit. Thea, who always felt that she was

be hindhand in courtesy to Mrs. Andersen, thought that here was an opportunity to show interest without

committing herself to anything. "Where is that, the Institute?" she asked absently.

Mrs. Andersen clasped her napkin in both hands. "The Art Institute? Our beautiful Art Institute on Michigan

"Oh, is it the place with the big lions out in front? I remember; I saw it when I went to Montgomery Ward's.

"No. The sign outside said it was a payday. I've al ways meant to go back, but I haven't happened to be

Mrs. Lorch and Mrs. Andersen looked at each other. The old mother spoke, fixing her shining little eyes upon

Thea across the table. "Ah, but Miss Kronborg, there are old masters! Oh, many of them, such as you could

"And Corots," breathed Mrs. Andersen, tilting her head feelingly. "Such examples of the Barbizon school!"

This was meaningless to Thea, who did not read the art columns of the Sunday INTEROCEAN as Mrs.

"Oh, I'm going there some day," she reassured them. "I like to look at oil paintings."

One bleak day in February, when the wind was blow ing clouds of dirt like a Moonstone sandstorm, dirt that

filled your eyes and ears and mouth, Thea fought her way across the unprotected space in front of the Art

Institute and into the doors of the building. She did not come out again until the closing hour. In the

streetcar, on the long cold ride home, while she sat staring at the waistcoat but tons of a fat straphanger,

she had a serious reckoning with herself. She seldom thought about her way of life, about what she ought or

ought not to do; usually there was but one obvious and important thing to be done. But that afternoon she

remonstrated with herself severely. She told herself that she was missing a great deal; that she ought to be

more willing to take advice and to go to see things. She was sorry that she had let months pass without going

The Institute proved, indeed, a place of retreat, as the sand hills or the Kohlers' garden used to be; a place

where she could forget Mrs. Andersen's tiresome overtures of friendship, the stout contralto in the choir

whom she so unreasonably hated, and even, for a little while, the torment of her work. That building was a

place in which she could relax and play, and she could hardly ever play now. On the whole, she spent more

time with the casts than with the pictures. They were at once more simple and more perplexing; and some

way they seemed more important, harder to overlook. It never occurred to her to buy a catalogue, so she

called most of the casts by names she made up for them. Some of them she knew; the Dying Gladiator she

had read about in "Childe Harold" almost as long ago as she could remember; he was strongly as sociated

with Dr. Archie and childish illnesses. The Venus di Milo puzzled her; she could not see why people thought

her so beautiful. She told herself over and over that she did not think the Apollo Belvedere "at all handsome."

Better than anything else she liked a great equestrian statue of an evil, cruellooking general with an unpro

nounceable name. She used to walk round and round this terrible man and his terrible horse, frowning at him,

The casts, when she lingered long among them, always made her gloomy. It was with a lightening of the

heart, a feeling of throwing off the old miseries and old sorrows of the world, that she ran up the wide

staircase to the pic tures. There she liked best the ones that told stories. There was a painting by Gerome

called "The Pasha's Grief" which always made her wish for Gunner and Axel. The Pasha was seated on a rug,

beside a green candle al most as big as a telegraph pole, and before him was stretched his dead tiger, a

splendid beast, and there were pink roses scattered about him. She loved, too, a picture of some boys bringing

in a newborn calf on a litter, the cow walking beside it and licking it. The Corot which hung next to this

But in that same room there was a pictureoh, that was the thing she ran upstairs so fast to see! That was her

picture. She imagined that nobody cared for it but herself, and that it waited for her. That was a picture in

deed. She liked even the name of it, "The Song of the Lark." The flat country, the early morning light, the wet

fields, the look in the girl's heavy facewell, they were all hers, anyhow, whatever was there. She told

herself that that picture was "right." Just what she meant by this, it would take a clever person to explain. But

to her the word covered the almost boundless satisfaction she felt when she looked at the picture.

Before Thea had any idea how fast the weeks were fly ing, before Mr. Larsen's "permanent" soprano had

re turned to her duties, spring came; windy, dusty, strident, shrill; a season almost more violent in Chicago

than the winter from which it releases one, or the heat to which it eventually delivers one. One sunny morning

the apple trees in Mrs. Lorch's back yard burst into bloom, and for the first time in months Thea dressed

without building a fire. The morning shone like a holiday, and for her it was to be a holiday. There was in the

air that sudden, treacher ous softness which makes the Poles who work in the pack inghouses get drunk.

At such times beauty is necessary, and in Packingtown there is no place to get it except at the saloons, where

one can buy for a few hours the illusion of comfort, hope, love,whatever one most longs for.

Harsanyi had given Thea a ticket for the symphony concert that afternoon, and when she looked out at the

white apple trees her doubts as to whether she ought to go vanished at once. She would make her work light

that morning, she told herself. She would go to the concert full of energy. When she set off, after dinner, Mrs.

Lorch, who knew Chicago weather, prevailed upon her to take her cape. The old lady said that such sudden

mildness, so early in April, presaged a sharp return of winter, and she was anxious about her apple trees.

The concert began at twothirty, and Thea was in her seat in the Auditorium at ten minutes after twoa fine

seat in the first row of the balcony, on the side, where she could see the house as well as the orchestra. She

had been to so few concerts that the great house, the crowd of people, and the lights, all had a stimulating

effect. She was surprised to see so many men in the audience, and wondered how they could leave their

business in the after noon. During the first number Thea was so much inter ested in the orchestra itself, in

the men, the instruments, the volume of sound, that she paid little attention to what they were playing. Her

excitement impaired her power of listening. She kept saying to herself, "Now I must stop this foolishness and

listen; I may never hear this again"; but her mind was like a glass that is hard to focus. She was not ready to

listen until the second num ber, Dvorak's Symphony in E minor, called on the pro gramme, "From the New

World." The first theme had scarcely been given out when her mind became clear; in stant composure fell

upon her, and with it came the power of concentration. This was music she could understand, music from the

New World indeed! Strange how, as the first movement went on, it brought back to her that high tableland

above Laramie; the grassgrown wagon trails, the faraway peaks of the snowy range, the wind and the

When the first movement ended, Thea's hands and feet were cold as ice. She was too much excited to know

any thing except that she wanted something desperately, and when the English horns gave out the theme of

the Largo, she knew that what she wanted was exactly that. Here were the sand hills, the grasshoppers and

locusts, all the things that wakened and chirped in the early morning; the reaching and reaching of high

plains, the immeas urable yearning of all flat lands. There was home in it, too; first memories, first mornings

long ago; the amaze ment of a new soul in a new world; a soul new and yet old, that had dreamed something

despairing, something glori ous, in the dark before it was born; a soul obsessed by what it did not know,

If Thea had had much experience in concertgoing, and had known her own capacity, she would have left the

hall when the symphony was over. But she sat still, scarcely knowing where she was, because her mind had

been far away and had not yet come back to her. She was startled when the orchestra began to play

againthe entry of the gods into Walhalla. She heard it as people hear things in their sleep. She knew

scarcely anything about the Wagner operas. She had a vague idea that "Rhinegold" was about the strife

between gods and men; she had read something about it in Mr. Haweis's book long ago. Too tired to follow

the orchestra with much under standing, she crouched down in her seat and closed her eyes. The cold,

stately measures of the Walhalla music rang out, far away; the rainbow bridge throbbed out into the air, under

it the wailing of the Rhine daughters and the singing of the Rhine. But Thea was sunk in twilight; it was all

going on in another world. So it happened that with a dull, almost listless ear she heard for the first time that

troubled music, everdarkening, everbrightening, which was to flow through so many years of her life.

When Thea emerged from the concert hall, Mrs. Lorch's predictions had been fulfilled. A furious gale was

beating over the city from Lake Michigan. The streets were full of cold, hurrying, angry people, running for

streetcars and barking at each other. The sun was setting in a clear, windy sky, that flamed with red as if

there were a great fire somewhere on the edge of the city. For almost the first time Thea was conscious of the

city itself, of the con gestion of life all about her, of the brutality and power of those streams that flowed in

the streets, threatening to drive one under. People jostled her, ran into her, poked her aside with their elbows,

uttering angry exclamations. She got on the wrong car and was roughly ejected by the conductor at a windy

corner, in front of a saloon. She stood there dazed and shivering. The cars passed, screaming as they rounded

curves, but either they were full to the doors, or were bound for places where she did not want to go. Her

hands were so cold that she took off her tight kid gloves. The street lights began to gleam in the dusk. A

young man came out of the saloon and stood eyeing her questioningly while he lit a cigarette. "Looking for a

friend tonight?" he asked. Thea drew up the collar of her cape and walked on a few paces. The young man

Thea came back to the corner and stood there irreso lutely. An old man approached her. He, too, seemed to

be waiting for a car. He wore an overcoat with a black fur collar, his gray mustache was waxed into little

points, and his eyes were watery. He kept thrusting his face up near hers. Her hat blew off and he ran after

ita stiff, pitiful skip he hadand brought it back to her. Then, while she was pinning her hat on, her cape

blew up, and he held it down for her, looking at her intently. His face worked as if he were going to cry or

were frightened. He leaned over and whispered something to her. It struck her as curious that he was really

quite timid, like an old beggar. "Oh, let me ALONE!" she cried miserably between her teeth. He vanished,

disappeared like the Devil in a play. But in the mean time something had got away from her; she could not

remember how the violins came in after the horns, just there. When her cape blew up, perhaps Why did

these men torment her? A cloud of dust blew in her face and blinded her. There was some power abroad in

the world bent upon taking away from her that feeling with which she had come out of the concert hall.

Everything seemed to sweep down on her to tear it out from under her cape. If one had that, the world

became one's enemy; people, buildings, wagons, cars, rushed at one to crush it under, to make one let go of it.

Thea glared round her at the crowds, the ugly, sprawling streets, the long lines of lights, and she was not

crying now. Her eyes were brighter than even Harsanyi had ever seen them. All these things and people were

no longer remote and negli gible; they had to be met, they were lined up against her, they were there to take

something from her. Very well; they should never have it. They might trample her to death, but they should

never have it. As long as she lived that ecstasy was going to be hers. She would live for it, work for it, die for

it; but she was going to have it, time after time, height after height. She could hear the crash of the orchestra

again, and she rose on the brasses. She would have it, what the trumpets were singing! She would have it,

have it,it! Under the old cape she pressed her hands upon her heaving bosom, that was a little girl's no

ONE afternoon in April, Theodore Thomas, the con ductor of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, had turned

out his desk light and was about to leave his office in the Auditorium Building, when Harsanyi appeared in

the doorway. The conductor welcomed him with a hearty handgrip and threw off the overcoat he had just

put on. He pushed Harsanyi into a chair and sat down at his bur dened desk, pointing to the piles of papers

"Another tour, clear to the coast. This traveling is the part of my work that grinds me, Andor. You know what

it means: bad food, dirt, noise, exhaustion for the men and for me. I'm not so young as I once was. It's time I

"Then I'm sorry for the `highway.' I remember when I first heard you in Pittsburg, long ago. It was a lifeline

you threw me. It's about one of the people along your high way that I've come to see you. Whom do you

Mr. Thomas frowned and pulled his heavy mustache. "Let me see; I suppose on the whole Madison Bowers is

Harsanyi nodded. "I thought there was no one else. I don't like him, either, so I hesitated. But I suppose he

"Yes, sir. A young Swedish girl from somewhere in Colorado. She is very talented, and she seems to me to

"I think it will be; though her low voice has a beauti ful quality, very individual. She has had no instruction

in voice at all, and I shrink from handing her over to any body; her own instinct about it has been so good. It

is one of those voices that manages itself easily, without thinning as it goes up; good breathing and perfect

relaxa tion. But she must have a teacher, of course. There is a break in the middle voice, so that the voice

Thomas looked up. "So? Curious; that cleft often happens with the Swedes. Some of their best singers have

had it. It always reminds me of the space you so often see between their front teeth. Is she strong physically?"

Harsanyi's eye flashed. He lifted his hand before him and clenched it. "Like a horse, like a tree! Every time I

"Yes; but no cultivation whatever. She came to me like a fine young savage, a book with nothing written in it.

That is why I feel the responsibility of directing her." Harsanyi paused and crushed his soft gray hat over his

knee. "She would interest you, Mr. Thomas," he added slowly. "She has a qualityvery individual."

"Yes; the Scandinavians are apt to have that, too. She can't go to Germany, I suppose?"

Thomas frowned again "I don't think Bowers a really firstrate man. He's too petty to be really firstrate; in

his nature, I mean. But I dare say he's the best you can do, if you can't give her time enough yourself."

Harsanyi waved his hand. "Oh, the time is nothingshe may have all she wants. But I cannot teach her to

"Might not come amiss if you made a musician of her, however," said Mr. Thomas dryly.

"I have done my best. But I can only play with a voice, and this is not a voice to be played with. I think she

will be a musician, whatever happens. She is not quick, but she is solid, real; not like these others. My wife

Mr. Thomas laughed. "Tell Mrs. Harsanyi that her remark conveys something to me. Don't let yourself get

too much interested. Voices are so often disappointing; especially women's voices. So much chance about it,

"Perhaps that is why they interest one. All the intelli gence and talent in the world can't make a singer. The

voice is a wild thing. It can't be bred in captivity. It is a sport, like the silver fox. It happens."

Mr. Thomas smiled into Harsanyi's gleaming eye. "Why haven't you brought her to sing for me?"

"I've been tempted to, but I knew you were driven to death, with this tour confronting you."

"Oh, I can always find time to listen to a girl who has a voice, if she means business. I'm sorry I'm leaving so

soon. I could advise you better if I had heard her. I can sometimes give a singer suggestions. I've worked so

"You're the only conductor I know who is not snobbish about singers." Harsanyi spoke warmly.

"Dear me, why should I be? They've learned from me, and I've learned from them." As they rose, Thomas

took the younger man affectionately by the arm. "Tell me about that wife of yours. Is she well, and as lovely

as ever? And such fine children! Come to see me oftener, when I get back. I miss it when you don't."

The two men left the Auditorium Building together. Harsanyi walked home. Even a short talk with Thomas

always stimulated him. As he walked he was recalling an evening they once spent together in Cincinnati.

Harsanyi was the soloist at one of Thomas's concerts there, and after the performance the conductor had taken

him off to a RATHSKELLER where there was excellent German cooking, and where the proprietor saw to it

that Thomas had the best wines procurable. Thomas had been working with the great chorus of the Festival

Association and was speaking of it with enthusiasm when Harsanyi asked him how it was that he was able to

feel such an interest in choral directing and in voices generally. Thomas seldom spoke of his youth or his

early struggles, but that night he turned back the pages and told Harsanyi a long story.

He said he had spent the summer of his fifteenth year wandering about alone in the South, giving violin con

certs in little towns. He traveled on horseback. When he came into a town, he went about all day tacking up

posters announcing his concert in the evening. Before the concert, he stood at the door taking in the

admission money until his audience had arrived, and then he went on the platform and played. It was a lazy,

handtomouth ex istence, and Thomas said he must have got to like that easy way of living and the

relaxing Southern atmosphere. At any rate, when he got back to New York in the fall, he was rather torpid;

perhaps he had been growing too fast. From this adolescent drowsiness the lad was awakened by two voices,

by two women who sang in New York in 1851, Jenny Lind and Henrietta Sontag. They were the first great

As he said, "It was not voice and execution alone. There was a greatness about them. They were great

women, great artists. They opened a new world to me." Night after night he went to hear them, striving to

reproduce the quality of their tone upon his violin. From that time his idea about strings was completely

changed, and on his violin he tried always for the singing, vibrating tone, in stead of the loud and somewhat

harsh tone then prevalent among even the best German violinists. In later years he often advised violinists to

study singing, and singers to study violin. He told Harsanyi that he got his first con ception of tone quality

"But, of course," he added, "the great thing I got from Lind and Sontag was the indefinite, not the definite,

thing. For an impressionable boy, their inspiration was incalcu lable. They gave me my first feeling for the

Italian style but I could never say how much they gave me. At that age, such influences are actually

All his life Thomas did his best to repay what he felt he owed to the singer's art. No man could get such

singing from choruses, and no man worked harder to raise the standard of singing in schools and churches

All through the lesson Thea had felt that Harsanyi was restless and abstracted. Before the hour was over, he

pushed back his chair and said resolutely, "I am not in the mood, Miss Kronborg. I have something on my

Thea turned to him in surprise. "The first of June, about. Mr. Larsen will not need me after that, and I have

"And today is the first of May; Mayday." Harsanyi leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands

locked between them. "Yes, I must talk to you about something. I have asked Madison Bowers to let me

bring you to him on Thursday, at your usual lessontime. He is the best vocal teacher in Chicago, and it is

"But I can't, Mr. Harsanyi. I haven't got the time, and, besides" she blushed and drew her shoulders up

stiffly"besides, I can't afford to pay two teachers." Thea felt that she had blurted this out in the worst

"I know that. I don't mean that you shall pay two teachers. After you go to Bowers you will not need me. I

Thea turned to him, hurt and angry. "But I don't want to go to Bowers. I don't want to leave you. What's the

matter? Don't I work hard enough? I'm sure you teach people that don't try half as hard."

Harsanyi rose to his feet. "Don't misunderstand me, Miss Kronborg. You interest me more than any pupil I

have. I have been thinking for months about what you ought to do, since that night when you first sang for

me." He walked over to the window, turned, and came toward her again. "I believe that your voice is worth

all that you can put into it. I have not come to this decision rashly. I have studied you, and I have become

more and more con vinced, against my own desires. I cannot make a singer of you, so it was my business to

"But suppose I don't want to be a singer? I want to study with you. What's the matter? Do you really think

Harsanyi paced up and down the long rug in front of her. "My girl, you are very talented. You could be a

pianist, a good one. But the early training of a pianist, such a pianist as you would want to be, must be

something tremendous. He must have had no other life than music. At your age he must be the master of his

instrument. Nothing can ever take the place of that first training. You know very well that your technique is

good, but it is not remarkable. It will never overtake your intelligence. You have a fine power of work, but

you are not by nature a stu dent. You are not by nature, I think, a pianist. You would never find yourself. In

the effort to do so, I'm afraid your playing would become warped, eccentric." He threw back his head and

looked at his pupil intently with that one eye which sometimes seemed to see deeper than any two eyes, as if

its singleness gave it privileges. "Oh, I have watched you very carefully, Miss Kronborg. Because you had

had so little and had yet done so much for yourself, I had a great wish to help you. I believe that the strongest

need of your nature is to find yourself, to emerge AS yourself. Until I heard you sing I wondered how you

Thea looked away toward the window with hard, nar row eyes. "You mean I can be a singer because I

"You have brains enough and talent enough. But to do what you will want to do, it takes more than theseit

takes vocation. Now, I think you have vocation, but for the voice, not for the piano. If you knew,"he

stopped and sighed,"if you knew how fortunate I sometimes think you. With the voice the way is so much

shorter, the rewards are more easily won. In your voice I think Na ture herself did for you what it would

take you many years to do at the piano. Perhaps you were not born in the wrong place after all. Let us talk

frankly now. We have never done so before, and I have respected your reticence. What you want more than

She turned her face away from him and looked down at the keyboard. Her answer came in a thickened voice.

"Always, until I came to you. It was you who made me want to play piano." Her voice trembled. "Before, I

Harsanyi reached out and caught the hand that was hanging at her side. He pressed it as if to give her some

thing. "Can't you see, my dear girl, that was only be cause I happened to be the first artist you have ever

known? If I had been a trombone player, it would have been the same; you would have wanted to play

trombone. But all the while you have been working with such goodwill, something has been struggling

against me. See, here we were, you and I and this instrument,"he tapped the piano,"three good friends,

working so hard. But all the while there was something fighting us: your gift, and the woman you were meant

to be. When you find your way to that gift and to that woman, you will be at peace. In the beginning it was an

Thea drew a long breath. Her hands fell in her lap. "So I'm just where I began. No teacher, nothing done. No

Harsanyi turned away. "Feel no apprehension about the money, Miss Kronborg. Come back in the fall and we

shall manage that. I shall even go to Mr. Thomas if neces sary. This year will not be lost. If you but knew

what an advantage this winter's study, all your study of the piano, will give you over most singers. Perhaps

Thea spoke with a heavy irony, so heavy, indeed, that it was coarse. It grated upon Harsanyi because he felt

He wheeled toward her. "Miss Kronborg, answer me this. YOU KNOW THAT YOU CAN SING, do you

not? You have always known it. While we worked here together you sometimes said to yourself, `I have

She shuddered. Her bent shoulders trembled. "I don't know," she muttered. "I didn't mean to be like that. I

She nodded. "Not at church or funerals, or with people like Mr. Larsen. But with you it waspersonal. I'm

not like you and Mrs. Harsanyi. I come of rough people. I'm rough. But I'm independent, too. It wasall I

"You needn't tell me. I know. Every artist knows." Harsanyi stood looking at his pupil's back, bent as if she

were pushing something, at her lowered head. "You can sing for those people because with them you do not

com mit yourself. But the reality, one cannot uncover THAT until one is sure. One can fail one's self, but

one must not live to see that fail; better never reveal it. Let me help you to make yourself sure of it. That I can

Harsanyi shook his head and smiled. "Oh, promise nothing! You will have much to do. There will not be

voice only, but French, German, Italian. You will have work enough. But sometimes you will need to be

under stood; what you never show to any one will need com panionship. And then you must come to me."

He peered into her face with that searching, intimate glance. "You know what I mean, the thing in you that

has no business with what is little, that will have to do only with beauty and power."

Thea threw out her hands fiercely, as if to push him away. She made a sound in her throat, but it was not

articulate. Harsanyi took one of her hands and kissed it lightly upon the back. His salute was one of greeting,

When Mrs. Harsanyi came in at six o'clock, she found her husband sitting listlessly by the window. "Tired?"

"A little. I've just got through a difficulty. I've sent Miss Kronborg away; turned her over to Bowers, for

"It's nothing rash. I've known for a long while I ought to do it. She is made for a singer, not a pianist."

Mrs. Harsanyi sat down on the piano chair. She spoke a little bitterly: "How can you be sure of that? She was,

at least, the best you had. I thought you meant to have her play at your students' recital next fall. I am sure she

would have made an impression. I could have dressed her so that she would have been very striking. She had

Harsanyi bent forward, looking at the floor. "Yes, I know. I shall miss her, of course."

Mrs. Harsanyi looked at her husband's fine head against the gray window. She had never felt deeper

tenderness for him than she did at that moment. Her heart ached for him. "You will never get on, Andor," she

Harsanyi sat motionless. "No, I shall never get on," he repeated quietly. Suddenly he sprang up with that light

movement she knew so well, and stood in the window, with folded arms. "But some day I shall be able to

look her in the face and laugh because I did what I could for her. I believe in her. She will do nothing

common. She is uncommon, in a common, common world. That is what I get out of it. It means more to me

than if she played at my concert and brought me a dozen pupils. All this drudgery will kill me if once in a

while I cannot hope some thing, for somebody! If I cannot sometimes see a bird fly and wave my hand to

His tone was angry and injured. Mrs. Harsanyi under stood that this was one of the times when his wife was

a part of the drudgery, of the "common, common world." He had let something he cared for go, and he felt

bitterly about whatever was left. The mood would pass, and he would be sorry. She knew him. It wounded

her, of course, but that hurt was not new. It was as old as her love for him. She went out and left him alone.

ONE warm damp June night the Denver Express was speeding westward across the earthysmelling plains of

Iowa. The lights in the daycoach were turned low and the ventilators were open, admitting showers of soot

and dust upon the occupants of the narrow green plush chairs which were tilted at various angles of

discomfort. In each of these chairs some uncomfortable human being lay drawn up, or stretched out, or

writhing from one position to an other. There were tired men in rumpled shirts, their necks bare and their

suspenders down; old women with their heads tied up in black handkerchiefs; bedraggled young women who

went to sleep while they were nursing their babies and forgot to button up their dresses; dirty boys who added

to the general discomfort by taking off their boots. The brakeman, when he came through at midnight, sniffed

the heavy air disdainfully and looked up at the ventilators. As he glanced down the double rows of con

torted figures, he saw one pair of eyes that were wide open and bright, a yellow head that was not overcome

by the stupefying heat and smell in the car. "There's a girl for you," he thought as he stopped by Thea's chair.

Thea smiled up at him, not misunderstanding his friend liness. "The girl behind me is sick; she can't stand a

He took out his openfaced watch and held it before her eyes with a knowing look. "In a hurry?" he asked.

"I'll leave the end door open and air you out. Catch a wink; the time'll go faster."

Thea nodded goodnight to him and settled her head back on her pillow, looking up at the oil lamps. She was

going back to Moonstone for her summer vacation, and she was sitting up all night in a daycoach because

that seemed such an easy way to save money. At her age dis comfort was a small matter, when one made

five dollars a day by it. She had confidently expected to sleep after the car got quiet, but in the two chairs

behind her were a sick girl and her mother, and the girl had been coughing steadily since ten o'clock. They

had come from somewhere in Pennsylvania, and this was their second night on the road. The mother said

they were going to Colorado "for her daughter's lungs." The daughter was a little older than Thea, perhaps

nineteen, with patient dark eyes and curly brown hair. She was pretty in spite of being so sooty and

travelstained. She had put on an ugly figured satine kimono over her loosened clothes. Thea, when she

boarded the train in Chicago, happened to stop and plant her heavy telescope on this seat. She had not

intended to remain there, but the sick girl had looked up at her with an eager smile and said, "Do sit there,

After the girl began to cough there were no empty seats left, and if there had been Thea could scarcely have

changed without hurting her feelings. The mother turned on her side and went to sleep; she was used to the

cough. But the girl lay wide awake, her eyes fixed on the roof of the car, as Thea's were. The two girls must

Thea fell to going over her winter in Chicago. It was only under unusual or uncomfortable conditions like

these that she could keep her mind fixed upon herself or her own affairs for any length of time. The rapid

motion and the vibration of the wheels under her seemed to give her thoughts rapidity and clearness. She had

taken twenty very expensive lessons from Madison Bowers, but she did not yet know what he thought of her

or of her ability. He was different from any man with whom she had ever had to do. With her other teachers

she had felt a personal relation; but with him she did not. Bowers was a cold, bitter, avaricious man, but he

knew a great deal about voices. He worked with a voice as if he were in a labora tory, conducting a series of

experiments. He was conscien tious and industrious, even capable of a certain cold fury when he was

working with an interesting voice, but Har sanyi declared that he had the soul of a shrimp, and could no

more make an artist than a throat specialist could. Thea realized that he had taught her a great deal in twenty

Although she cared so much less for Bowers than for Harsanyi, Thea was, on the whole, happier since she

had been studying with him than she had been before. She had always told herself that she studied piano to fit

her self to be a music teacher. But she never asked herself why she was studying voice. Her voice, more

than any other part of her, had to do with that confidence, that sense of wholeness and inner wellbeing that

Of this feeling Thea had never spoken to any human being until that day when she told Harsanyi that "there

had always beensomething." Hitherto she had felt but one obligation toward itsecrecy; to protect it even

from herself. She had always believed that by doing all that was required of her by her family, her teachers,

her pupils, she kept that part of herself from being caught up in the meshes of common things. She took it for

granted that some day, when she was older, she would know a great deal more about it. It was as if she had an

appoint ment to meet the rest of herself sometime, somewhere. It was moving to meet her and she was

moving to meet it. That meeting awaited her, just as surely as, for the poor girl in the seat behind her, there

For Thea, so much had begun with a hole in the earth. Yes, she reflected, this new part of her life had all

begun that morning when she sat on the clay bank beside Ray Ken nedy, under the flickering shade of the

cottonwood tree. She remembered the way Ray had looked at her that morning. Why had he cared so much?

And Wunsch, and Dr. Archie, and Spanish Johnny, why had they? It was something that had to do with her

that made them care, but it was not she. It was something they believed in, but it was not she. Perhaps each of

them concealed another person in himself, just as she did. Why was it that they seemed to feel and to hunt for

a second person in her and not in each other? Thea frowned up at the dull lamp in the roof of the car. What if

one's second self could some how speak to all these second selves? What if one could bring them out, as

whiskey did Spanish Johnny's? How deep they lay, these second persons, and how little one knew about

them, except to guard them fiercely. It was to music, more than to anything else, that these hidden things in

people responded. Her mothereven her mo ther had something of that sort which replied to music.

Thea found herself listening for the coughing behind her and not hearing it. She turned cautiously and looked

back over the headrest of her chair. The poor girl had fallen asleep. Thea looked at her intently. Why was

she so afraid of men? Why did she shrink into herself and avert her face whenever a man passed her chair?

Thea thought she knew; of course, she knew. How horrible to waste away like that, in the time when one

ought to be growing fuller and stronger and rounder every day. Suppose there were such a dark hole open for

her, between tonight and that place where she was to meet herself? Her eyes nar rowed. She put her hand

on her breast and felt how warm it was; and within it there was a full, powerful pulsation. She

smiledthough she was ashamed of it with the natural contempt of strength for weakness, with the sense

of physical security which makes the savage merciless. Nobody could die while they felt like that in side.

The springs there were wound so tight that it would be a long while before there was any slack in them. The

life in there was rooted deep. She was going to have a few things before she died. She realized that there were

a great many trains dashing east and west on the face of the con tinent that night, and that they all carried

young people who meant to have things. But the difference was that SHE WAS GOING TO GET THEM!

That was all. Let people try to stop her! She glowered at the rows of feckless bodies that lay sprawled in the

chairs. Let them try it once! Along with the yearning that came from some deep part of her, that was selfless

and exalted, Thea had a hard kind of cockiness, a determination to get ahead. Well, there are passages in life

when that fierce, stubborn selfassertion will stand its ground after the nobler feeling is over whelmed and

Having told herself once more that she meant to grab a few things, Thea went to sleep.

She was wakened in the morning by the sunlight, which beat fiercely through the glass of the car window

upon her face. She made herself as clean as she could, and while the people all about her were getting cold

food out of their lunchbaskets she escaped into the diningcar. Her thrift did not go to the point of enabling

her to carry a lunch basket. At that early hour there were few people in the diningcar. The linen was white

and fresh, the darkies were trim and smiling, and the sunlight gleamed pleasantly upon the silver and the

glass waterbottles. On each table there was a slender vase with a single pink rose in it. When Thea sat down

she looked into her rose and thought it the most beautiful thing in the world; it was wide open, recklessly

offering its yellow heart, and there were drops of water on the petals. All the future was in that rose, all that

one would like to be. The flower put her in an absolutely regal mood. She had a whole pot of coffee, and

scrambled eggs with chopped ham, utterly disregarding the astonishing price they cost. She had faith enough

in what she could do, she told herself, to have eggs if she wanted them. At the table opposite her sat a man

and his wife and little boy Thea classified them as being "from the East." They spoke in that quick, sure

staccato, which Thea, like Ray Kennedy, pretended to scorn and secretly admired. Peo ple who could use

words in that confident way, and who spoke them elegantly, had a great advantage in life, she reflected.

There were so many words which she could not pronounce in speech as she had to do in singing. Lan guage

was like clothes; it could be a help to one, or it could give one away. But the most important thing was that

When she paid her check she consulted the waiter. "Waiter, do you suppose I could buy one of those roses?

I'm out of the daycoach, and there is a sick girl in there. I'd like to take her a cup of coffee and one of those

The waiter liked nothing better than advising travelers less sophisticated than himself. He told Thea there

were a few roses left in the icebox and he would get one. He took the flower and the coffee into the

daycoach. Thea pointed out the girl, but she did not accompany him. She hated thanks and never received

them gracefully. She stood outside on the platform to get some fresh air into her lungs. The train was crossing

the Platte River now, and the sunlight was so intense that it seemed to quiver in little flames on the glittering

Thea felt that she was coming back to her own land. She had often heard Mrs. Kronborg say that she

"believed in immigration," and so did Thea believe in it. This earth seemed to her young and fresh and

kindly, a place where refugees from old, sad countries were given another chance. The mere absence of rocks

gave the soil a kind of amia bility and generosity, and the absence of natural bound aries gave the spirit a

wider range. Wire fences might mark the end of a man's pasture, but they could not shut in his thoughts as

mountains and forests can. It was over flat lands like this, stretching out to drink the sun, that the larks

sangand one's heart sang there, too. Thea was glad that this was her country, even if one did not learn to

speak elegantly there. It was, somehow, an honest coun try, and there was a new song in that blue air which

had never been sung in the world before. It was hard to tell about it, for it had nothing to do with words; it

was like the light of the desert at noon, or the smell of the sagebrush after rain; intangible but powerful. She

had the sense of going back to a friendly soil, whose friendship was some how going to strengthen her; a

naive, generous country that gave one its joyous force, its largehearted, childlike power to love, just as it

As she drew in that glorious air Thea's mind went back to Ray Kennedy. He, too, had that feeling of empire;

as if all the Southwest really belonged to him because he had knocked about over it so much, and knew it, as

he said, "like the blisters on his own hands." That feeling, she reflected, was the real element of

companionship between her and Ray. Now that she was going back to Colorado, she realized this as she had

THEA reached Moonstone in the late afternoon, and all the Kronborgs were there to meet her except her two

older brothers. Gus and Charley were young men now, and they had declared at noon that it would "look silly

if the whole bunch went down to the train." "There's no use making a fuss over Thea just because she's been

to Chi cago," Charley warned his mother. "She's inclined to think pretty well of herself, anyhow, and if you

go treating her like company, there'll be no living in the house with her." Mrs. Kronborg simply leveled her

eyes at Charley, and he faded away, muttering. She had, as Mr. Kronborg always said with an inclination of

his head, good control over her children. Anna, too, wished to absent herself from the party, but in the end her

curiosity got the better of her. So when Thea stepped down from the porter's stool, a very creditable Kronborg

representation was grouped on the platform to greet her. After they had all kissed her (Gunner and Axel

shyly), Mr. Kronborg hurried his flock into the hotel omnibus, in which they were to be driven ceremoniously

All the family talked to her at once, except Thor, impressive in new trousers, who was gravely silent

and who refused to sit on Thea's lap. One of the first things Anna told her was that Maggie Evans, the girl

who used to cough in prayer meeting, died yesterday, and had made a request that Thea sing at her funeral.

Thea's smile froze. "I'm not going to sing at all this summer, except my exercises. Bowers says I taxed my

voice last winter, singing at funerals so much. If I begin the first day after I get home, there'll be no end to it.

Thea saw Anna glance at their mother. Thea remem bered having seen that look on Anna's face often

before, but she had never thought anything about it because she was used to it. Now she realized that the look

was dis tinctly spiteful, even vindictive. She suddenly realized that Anna had always disliked her.

Mrs. Kronborg seemed to notice nothing, and changed the trend of the conversation, telling Thea that Dr.

Archie and Mr. Upping, the jeweler, were both coming in to see her that evening, and that she had asked

Spanish Johnny to come, because he had behaved well all winter and ought to be encouraged.

The next morning Thea wakened early in her own room up under the eaves and lay watching the sunlight

shine on the roses of her wallpaper. She wondered whether she would ever like a plastered room as well as

this one lined with scantlings. It was snug and tight, like the cabin of a little boat. Her bed faced the window

and stood against the wall, under the slant of the ceiling. When she went away she could just touch the ceiling

with the tips of her fingers; now she could touch it with the palm of her hand. It was so little that it was like a

sunny cave, with roses running all over the roof. Through the low window, as she lay there, she could watch

people going by on the farther side of the street; men, going downtown to open their stores. Thor was over

there, rattling his express wagon along the sidewalk. Tillie had put a bunch of French pinks in a tumbler of

water on her dresser, and they gave out a pleas ant perfume. The blue jays were fighting and screeching in

the cottonwood tree outside her window, as they always did, and she could hear the old Baptist deacon across

the street calling his chickens, as she had heard him do every summer morning since she could remember. It

was pleasant to waken up in that bed, in that room, and to feel the brightness of the morning, while light

quivered about the low, papered ceiling in golden spots, refracted by the broken mirror and the glass of water

that held the pinks. "IM LEUCHTENDEN SOMMERMORGEN"; those lines, and the face of her old

teacher, came back to Thea, floated to her out of sleep, perhaps. She had been dreaming something pleas

ant, but she could not remember what. She would go to call upon Mrs. Kohler today, and see the pigeons

washing their pink feet in the drip under the water tank, and flying about their house that was sure to have a

fresh coat of white paint on it for summer. On the way home she would stop to see Mrs. Tellamantez. On

Sunday she would coax Gunner to take her out to the sand hills. She had missed them in Chicago; had been

homesick for their brilliant morning gold and for their soft colors at evening. The Lake, somehow, had never

While she lay planning, relaxed in warm drowsiness, she heard a knock at her door. She supposed it was

Tillie, who sometimes fluttered in on her before she was out of bed to offer some service which the family

would have ridiculed. But instead, Mrs. Kronborg herself came in, carrying a tray with Thea's breakfast set

out on one of the best white napkins. Thea sat up with some embarrassment and pulled her nightgown

together across her chest. Mrs. Kronborg was always busy downstairs in the morning, and Thea could not

"I thought you'd be tired, after traveling, and might like to take it easy for once." Mrs. Kronborg put the tray

on the edge of the bed. "I took some thick cream for you before the boys got at it. They raised a howl." She

chuckled and sat down in the big wooden rocking chair. Her visit made Thea feel grownup, and, somehow,

Mrs. Kronborg asked her about Bowers and the Har sanyis. She felt a great change in Thea, in her face and

in her manner. Mr. Kronborg had noticed it, too, and had spoken of it to his wife with great satisfaction while

they were undressing last night. Mrs. Kronborg sat looking at her daughter, who lay on her side, supporting

herself on her elbow and lazily drinking her coffee from the tray be fore her. Her shortsleeved nightgown

had come open at the throat again, and Mrs. Kronborg noticed how white her arms and shoulders were, as if

they had been dipped in new milk. Her chest was fuller than when she went away, her breasts rounder and

firmer, and though she was so white where she was uncovered, they looked rosy through the thin muslin. Her

body had the elasticity that comes of being highly charged with the desire to live. Her hair, hanging in two

loose braids, one by either cheek, was just enough disordered to catch the light in all its curly ends.

Thea always woke with a pink flush on her cheeks, and this morning her mother thought she had never seen

her eyes so wideopen and bright; like clear green springs in the wood, when the early sunlight sparkles in

them. She would make a very handsome woman, Mrs. Kronborg said to herself, if she would only get rid of

that fierce look she had sometimes. Mrs. Kronborg took great pleasure in good looks, wherever she found

them. She still remembered that, as a baby, Thea had been the "bestformed" of any of her children.

"I'll have to get you a longer bed," she remarked, as she put the tray on the table. "You're getting too long for

Thea looked up at her mother and laughed, dropping back on her pillow with a magnificent stretch of her

"I don't like to press you, Thea, but I think you'd better sing at that funeral tomorrow. I'm afraid you'll

always be sorry if you don't. Sometimes a little thing like that, that seems nothing at the time, comes back on

one afterward and troubles one a good deal. I don't mean the church shall run you to death this summer, like

they used to. I've spoken my mind to your father about that, and he's very reasonable. But Maggie talked a

good deal about you to people this winter; always asked what word we'd had, and said how she missed your

"All right, mother, if you think so." Thea lay looking at her mother with intensely bright eyes.

"That's right, daughter." Mrs. Kronborg rose and went over to get the tray, stopping to put her hand on Thea's

chest. "You're filling out nice," she said, feeling about. "No, I wouldn't bother about the buttons. Leave 'em

Thea lay still and heard her mother's firm step receding along the bare floor of the trunk loft. There was no

sham about her mother, she reflected. Her mother knew a great many things of which she never talked, and

all the church people were forever chattering about things of which they knew nothing. She liked her mother.

Now for Mexican Town and the Kohlers! She meant to run in on the old woman without warning, and hug

SPANISH JOHNNY had no shop of his own, but he kept a table and an orderbook in one corner of the drug

store where paints and wallpaper were sold, and he was sometimes to be found there for an hour or so about

noon. Thea had gone into the drug store to have a friendly chat with the proprietor, who used to lend her

books from his shelves. She found Johnny there, trimming rolls of wallpaper for the parlor of Banker

"Johnny," she said suddenly, "I want you to write down the words of that Mexican serenade you used to sing;

you know, `ROSA DE NOCHE.' It's an unusual song. I'm going to study it. I know enough Spanish for that."

Johnny looked up from his roller with his bright, affable smile. "SI, but it is low for you, I think; VOZ

"Nonsense. I can do more with my low voice than I used to. I'll show you. Sit down and write it out for me,

Johnny ran his fingers through his curly black hair. "If you wish. I do not know if that SERENATA all right

for young ladies. Down there it is more for married ladies. They sing it for husbandsor somebody else,

maybee." Johnny's eyes twinkled and he apologized gracefully with his shoulders. He sat down at the table,

and while Thea looked over his arm, began to write the song down in a long, slanting script, with highly

ornamental capitals. Presently he looked up. "Thisa song not exactly Mexi can," he said thoughtfully. "It

come from farther down; Brazil, Venezuela, maybee. I learn it from some fellow down there, and he learn it

from another fellow. It isa most like Mexican, but not quite." Thea did not release him, but pointed to the

paper. There were three verses of the song in all, and when Johnny had written them down, he sat looking at

them meditatively, his head on one side. "I don' think for a high voice, SENORITA," he objected with polite

"For you, maybee!" Johnny smiled and drummed on the table with the tips of his agile brown fingers. "You

know something? Listen, I tell you." He rose and sat down on the table beside her, putting his foot on the

chair. He loved to talk at the hour of noon. "When you was a little girl, no bigger than that, you come to my

house one day 'bout noon, like this, and I was in the door, playing guitar. You was barehead, barefoot; you

run away from home. You stand there and make a frown at me an' listen. By 'n by you say for me to sing. I

sing some lil' ting, and then I say for you to sing with me. You don' know no words, of course, but you take

the air and you sing it just a beautiful! I never see a child do that, outside Mexico. You was, oh, I do'

knowseven year, maybee. By 'n by the preacher come look for you and begin for scold. I say, `Don'

scold, Meester Kronborg. She come for hear guitar. She gotta some music in her, that child. Where she get?'

Then he tell me 'bout your gran'papa play oboe in the old country. I never forgetta that time." Johnny

Thea nodded. "I remember that day, too. I liked your music better than the church music. When are you going

Johnny tilted his head. "Well, Saturday night the Spanish boys have a lil' party, some DANZA. You know

Miguel Ramas? He have some young cousins, two boys, very nicea, come from Torreon. They going to Salt

Lake for some joba, and stay off with him twothree days, and he mus' have a party. You like to come?"

That was how Thea came to go to the Mexican ball. Mexican Town had been increased by half a dozen new

families during the last few years, and the Mexicans had put up an adobe dancehall, that looked exactly like

one of their own dwellings, except that it was a little longer, and was so unpretentious that nobody in

Moonstone knew of its existence. The "Spanish boys" are reticent about their own affairs. Ray Kennedy used

to know about all their little doings, but since his death there was no one whom the Mexicans considered

On Saturday evening after supper Thea told her mother that she was going over to Mrs. Tellamantez's to

Mrs. Kronborg smiled. She noticed that Thea had put on a white dress and had done her hair up with unusual

care, and that she carried her best blue scarf. "Maybe you'll take a turn yourself, eh? I wouldn't mind

Thea made a feeble suggestion that her mother might go with her, but Mrs. Kronborg was too wise for that.

She knew that Thea would have a better time if she went alone, and she watched her daughter go out of the

Thea walked slowly. It was a soft, rosy evening. The sand hills were lavender. The sun had gone down a

glow ing copper disk, and the fleecy clouds in the east were a burning rosecolor, flecked with gold. Thea

passed the cottonwood grove and then the depot, where she left the sidewalk and took the sandy path toward

Mexican Town. She could hear the scraping of violins being tuned, the tinkle of mandolins, and the growl of

a double bass. Where had they got a double bass? She did not know there was one in Moonstone. She found

later that it was the pro perty of one of Ramas's young cousins, who was taking it to Utah with him to cheer

The Mexicans never wait until it is dark to begin to dance, and Thea had no difficulty in finding the new hall,

because every other house in the town was deserted. Even the babies had gone to the ball; a neighbor was

always willing to hold the baby while the mother danced. Mrs. Tellamantez came out to meet Thea and led

her in. Johnny bowed to her from the platform at the end of the room, where he was playing the mandolin

along with two fiddles and the bass. The hall was a long low room, with white washed walls, a fairly tight

plank floor, wooden benches along the sides, and a few bracket lamps screwed to the frame timbers. There

must have been fifty people there, counting the children. The Mexican dances were very much family affairs.

The fathers always danced again and again with their little daughters, as well as with their wives. One of the

girls came up to greet Thea, her dark cheeks glowing with pleasure and cordiality, and intro duced her

brother, with whom she had just been dancing. "You better take him every time he asks you," she whis

Thea soon decided that the poorest dancer was herself. Even Mrs. Tellamantez, who always held her

shoulders so stiffly, danced better than she did. The musicians did not remain long at their post. When one of

them felt like dancing, he called some other boy to take his instrument, put on his coat, and went down on the

floor. Johnny, who wore a blousy white silk shirt, did not even put on his coat.

The dances the railroad men gave in Firemen's Hall were the only dances Thea had ever been allowed to go

to, and they were very different from this. The boys played rough jokes and thought it smart to be clumsy and

to run into each other on the floor. For the square dances there was always the bawling voice of the caller,

This Mexican dance was soft and quiet. There was no calling, the conversation was very low, the rhythm of

the music was smooth and engaging, the men were graceful and courteous. Some of them Thea had never

before seen out of their working clothes, smeared with grease from the roundhouse or clay from the

brickyard. Sometimes, when the music happened to be a popular Mexican waltz song, the dancers sang it

softly as they moved. There were three little girls under twelve, in their first communion dresses, and one of

them had an orange marigold in her black hair, just over her ear. They danced with the men and with each

other. There was an atmosphere of ease and friendly pleasure in the low, dimly lit room, and Thea could not

help wondering whether the Mexicans had no jealousies or neighborly grudges as the people in Moonstone

had. There was no constraint of any kind there tonight, but a kind of natural harmony about their

Ramas brought up his two young cousins, Silvo and Felipe, and presented them. They were handsome, smil

ing youths, of eighteen and twenty, with palegold skins, smooth cheeks, aquiline features, and wavy black

hair, like Johnny's. They were dressed alike, in black velvet jackets and soft silk shirts, with opal

shirtbuttons and flowing black ties looped through gold rings. They had charming manners, and low,

guitarlike voices. They knew almost no English, but a Mexican boy can pay a great many compliments with

a very limited vocabulary. The Ramas boys thought Thea dazzlingly beautiful. They had never seen a

Scandinavian girl before, and her hair and fair skin bewitched them. "BLANCO Y ORO, SEMEJANTE LA

PASCUA!" (White and gold, like Easter!) they exclaimed to each other. Silvo, the younger, declared that he

could never go on to Utah; that he and his double bass had reached their ultimate destination. The elder was

more crafty; he asked Miguel Ramas whether there would be "plenty more girls like that A Salt Lake, may

Silvo, overhearing, gave his brother a contemptuous glance. "Plenty more A PARAISO maybee!" he

retorted. When they were not dancing with her, their eyes followed her, over the coiffures of their other

partners. That was not difficult; one blonde head moving among so many dark ones.

Thea had not meant to dance much, but the Ramas boys danced so well and were so handsome and adoring

that she yielded to their entreaties. When she sat out a dance with them, they talked to her about their family

at home, and told her how their mother had once punned upon their name. RAMA, in Spanish, meant a

branch, they explained. Once when they were little lads their mother took them along when she went to help

the women deco rate the church for Easter. Some one asked her whether she had brought any flowers, and

she replied that she had brought her "ramas." This was evidently a cherished family story.

When it was nearly midnight, Johnny announced that every one was going to his house to have "some lil'

ice cream and some lil' MUSICA." He began to put out the lights and Mrs. Tellamantez led the way across

the square to her CASA. The Ramas brothers escorted Thea, and as they stepped out of the door, Silvo

Most of the company followed Mrs. Tellamantez, and they sat about on the gravel in her little yard while she

and Johnny and Mrs. Miguel Ramas served the icecream. Thea sat on Felipe's coat, since Silvo's was

already about her shoulders. The youths lay down on the shining gravel beside her, one on her right and one

on her left. Johnny already called them "LOS ACOLITOS," the altarboys. The talk all about them was low,

and indolent. One of the girls was playing on Johnny's guitar, another was picking lightly at a mandolin. The

moonlight was so bright that one could see every glance and smile, and the flash of their teeth. The

moonflowers over Mrs. Tellamantez's door were wide open and of an unearthly white. The moon itself

After all the icecream was gone, Johnny approached Thea, his guitar under his arm, and the elder Ramas

boy politely gave up his place. Johnny sat down, took a long breath, struck a fierce chord, and then hushed it

When Thea began to sing, instant silence fell upon the company. She felt all those dark eyes fix themselves

upon her intently. She could see them shine. The faces came out of the shadow like the white flowers over the

door. Felipe leaned his head upon his hand. Silvo dropped on his back and lay looking at the moon, under the

impression that he was still looking at Thea. When she finished the first verse, Thea whispered to Johnny,

She had sung for churches and funerals and teachers, but she had never before sung for a really musical

people, and this was the first time she had ever felt the response that such a people can give. They turned

themselves and all they had over to her. For the moment they cared about nothing in the world but what she

was doing. Their faces confronted her, open, eager, unprotected. She felt as if all these warmblooded people

debouched into her. Mrs. Tellamantez's fateful resignation, Johnny's madness, the adoration of the boy who

lay still in the sand; in an instant these things seemed to be within her instead of without, as if they had come

When she finished, her listeners broke into excited mur mur. The men began hunting feverishly for

cigarettes. Famos Serranos the barytone bricklayer, touched Johnny's arm, gave him a questioning look, then

heaved a deep sigh. Johnny dropped on his elbow, wiping his face and neck and hands with his handkerchief.

"SENORITA," he panted, "if you sing like that once in the City of Mexico, they justa go crazy. In the City

of Mexico they ain'ta sit like stumps when they hear that, nota much! When they like, they justa give you

Thea laughed. She, too, was excited. "Think so, Johnny? Come, sing something with me. EL PARRENO; I

Johnny laughed and hugged his guitar. "You nota forget him?" He began teasing his strings. "Come!" He

Johnny had almost every fault that a tenor can have. His voice was thin, unsteady, husky in the middle tones.

But it was distinctly a voice, and sometimes he managed to get something very sweet out of it. Certainly it

made him happy to sing. Thea kept glancing down at him as he lay there on his elbow. His eyes seemed twice

as large as usual and had lights in them like those the moonlight makes on black, running water. Thea

remembered the old stories about his "spells." She had never seen him when his madness was on him, but she

felt something to night at her elbow that gave her an idea of what it might be like. For the first time she fully

understood the cryptic explanation that Mrs. Tellamantez had made to Dr. Archie, long ago. There were the

same shells along the walk; she believed she could pick out the very one. There was the same moon up

yonder, and panting at her elbow was the same Johnnyfooled by the same old things!

When they had finished, Famos, the barytone, mur mured something to Johnny; who replied, "Sure we can

sing `Trovatore.' We have no alto, but all the girls can sing alto and make some noise."

The women laughed. Mexican women of the poorer class do not sing like the men. Perhaps they are too in

dolent. In the evening, when the men are singing their throats dry on the doorstep, or around the campfire

While Johnny was gesticulating and telling everybody what to sing and how to sing it, Thea put out her foot

and touched the corpse of Silvo with the toe of her slipper. "Aren't you going to sing, Silvo?" she asked

The boy turned on his side and raised himself on his elbow for a moment. "Not this night, SENORITA," he

pleaded softly, "not this night!" He dropped back again, and lay with his cheek on his right arm, the hand

"How does he flatten himself into the ground like that?" Thea asked herself. "I wish I knew. It's very

Across the gulch the Kohlers' little house slept among its trees, a dark spot on the white face of the desert.

The windows of their upstairs bedroom were open, and Paulina had listened to the dance music for a long

while before she drowsed off. She was a light sleeper, and when she woke again, after midnight, Johnny's

concert was at its height. She lay still until she could bear it no longer. Then she wakened Fritz and they went

Fritz was not so wide awake as his wife. He grunted and scratched on the floor with his bare foot. They were

lis tening to a Mexican partsong; the tenor, then the soprano, then both together; the barytone joins them,

rages, is extinguished; the tenor expires in sobs, and the soprano finishes alone. When the soprano's last note

There was silence for a few moments. Then the guitar sounded fiercely, and several male voices began the

sextette from "Lucia." Johnny's reedy tenor they knew well, and the bricklayer's big, opaque barytone; the

others might be anybody over therejust Mexican voices. Then at the appointed, at the acute, moment, the

soprano voice, like a fountain jet, shot up into the light. "HORCH! HORCH!" the old people whispered, both

at once. How it leaped from among those dusky male voices! How it played in and about and around and over

them, like a goldfish darting among creek minnows, like a yellow butterfly soaring above a swarm of dark

MRS. KRONBORG had said that Thea was not to be disturbed on Sunday morning, and she slept until noon.

When she came downstairs the family were just sitting down to dinner, Mr. Kronborg at one end of the long

table, Mrs. Kronborg at the other. Anna, stiff and ceremonious, in her summer silk, sat at her father's right,

and the boys were strung along on either side of the table. There was a place left for Thea between her mother

and Thor. During the silence which preceded the blessing, Thea felt something uncomfortable in the air.

Anna and her older brothers had lowered their eyes when she came in. Mrs. Kronborg nodded cheerfully, and

"I expect you had a good time at that dance, Thea. I hope you got your sleep out."

"High society, that," remarked Charley, giving the mashed potatoes a vicious swat. Anna's mouth and eye

Thea looked across the table at the uncompromising countenances of her older brothers. "Why, what's the

matter with the Mexicans?" she asked, flushing. "They don't trouble anybody, and they are kind to their

"Nice clean people; got some style about them. Do you really like that kind, Thea, or do you just pretend to?

That's what I'd like to know." Gus looked at her with pained inquiry. But he at least looked at her.

"They're just as clean as white people, and they have a perfect right to their own ways. Of course I like 'em. I

"Everybody according to their own taste," remarked Charley bitterly. "Quit crumbing your bread up, Thor.

"Children, children!" said Mr. Kronborg nervously, looking up from the chicken he was dismembering. He

"That's all right, Charley. Drop it there," said Mrs. Kronborg. "No use spoiling your Sunday dinner with race

prejudices. The Mexicans suit me and Thea very well. They are a useful people. Now you can just talk about

Conversation, however, did not flourish at that dinner. Everybody ate as fast as possible. Charley and Gus

said they had engagements and left the table as soon as they finished their apple pie. Anna sat primly and ate

with great elegance. When she spoke at all she spoke to her father, about church matters, and always in a

commiserat ing tone, as if he had met with some misfortune. Mr. Kronborg, quite innocent of her intentions,

replied kindly and absentmindedly. After the dessert he went to take his usual Sunday afternoon nap, and

Mrs. Kronborg carried some dinner to a sick neighbor. Thea and Anna began to clear the table.

"I should think you would show more consideration for father's position, Thea," Anna began as soon as she

"Everybody at SundaySchool was talking about you going over there and singing with the Mexicans all

night, when you won't sing for the church. Somebody heard you, and told it all over town. Of course, we all

"I must say you choose your company! You always had that streak in you, Thea. We all hoped that going

away would improve you. Of course, it reflects on father when you are scarcely polite to the nice people here

"Oh, it's my singing with the Mexicans you object to?" Thea put down a tray full of dishes. "Well, I like to

sing over there, and I don't like to over here. I'll sing for them any time they ask me to. They know something

"Talented!" Anna made the word sound like escaping steam. "I suppose you think it's smart to come home

Thea picked up the tray. By this time she was as white as the Sunday tablecloth. "Well," she replied in a cold,

even tone, "I'll have to throw it at them sooner or later. It's just a question of when, and it might as well be

Tillie, who was always listening and looking out for her, took the dishes from her with a furtive, frightened

glance at her stony face. Thea went slowly up the back stairs to her loft. Her legs seemed as heavy as lead as

she climbed the stairs, and she felt as if everything inside her had solidi fied and grown hard.

After shutting her door and locking it, she sat down on the edge of her bed. This place had always been her

refuge, but there was a hostility in the house now which this door could not shut out. This would be her last

summer in that room. Its services were over; its time was done. She rose and put her hand on the low ceiling.

Two tears ran down her cheeks, as if they came from ice that melted slowly. She was not ready to leave her

little shell. She was being pulled out too soon. She would never be able to think anywhere else as well as

here. She would never sleep so well or have such dreams in any other bed; even last night, such sweet,

breathless dreams Thea hid her face in the pillow. Wherever she went she would like to take that little bed

with her. When she went away from it for good, she would leave something that she could never recover;

mem ories of pleasant excitement, of happy adventures in her mind; of warm sleep on howling winter

nights, and joyous awakenings on summer mornings. There were certain dreams that might refuse to come to

her at all except in a little morning cave, facing the sunwhere they came to her so powerfully, where they

The room was hot as an oven. The sun was beating fiercely on the shingles behind the board ceiling. She un

dressed, and before she threw herself upon her bed in her chemise, she frowned at herself for a long while in

her look ingglass. Yes, she and It must fight it out together. The thing that looked at her out of her own

eyes was the only friend she could count on. Oh, she would make these people sorry enough! There would

come a time when they would want to make it up with her. But, never again! She had no little vanities, only

Her mother was all right, but her mother was a part of the family, and she was not. In the nature of things, her

mother had to be on both sides. Thea felt that she had been betrayed. A truce had been broken behind her

back. She had never had much individual affection for any of her brothers except Thor, but she had never

been disloyal, never felt scorn or held grudges. As a little girl she had always been good friends with Gunner

and Axel, whenever she had time to play. Even before she got her own room, when they were all sleeping and

dressing together, like little cubs, and breakfasting in the kitchen, she had led an absorbing personal life of

her own. But she had a cub loyalty to the other cubs. She thought them nice boys and tried to make them get

their lessons. She once fought a bully who "picked on" Axel at school. She never made fun of Anna's

Thea had always taken it for granted that her sister and brothers recognized that she had special abilities, and

that they were proud of it. She had done them the honor, she told herself bitterly, to believe that though they

had no particular endowments, THEY WERE OF HER KIND, and not of the Moonstone kind. Now they had

all grown up and be come persons. They faced each other as individuals, and she saw that Anna and Gus

and Charley were among the people whom she had always recognized as her natural enemies. Their

ambitions and sacred proprieties were meaningless to her. She had neglected to congratulate Charley upon

having been promoted from the grocery de partment of Commings's store to the drygoods depart ment. Her

mother had reproved her for this omission. And how was she to know, Thea asked herself, that Anna ex

pected to be teased because Bert Rice now came and sat in the hammock with her every night? No, it was all

clear enough. Nothing that she would ever do in the world would seem important to them, and nothing they

Thea lay thinking intently all through the stifling after noon. Tillie whispered something outside her door

once, but she did not answer. She lay on her bed until the second church bell rang, and she saw the family go

trooping up the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, Anna and her father in the lead. Anna seemed to

have taken on a very storybook attitude toward her father; pat ronizing and condescending, it seemed to

Thea. The older boys were not in the family band. They now took their girls to church. Tillie had stayed at

home to get supper. Thea got up, washed her hot face and arms, and put on the white organdie dress she had

worn last night; it was getting too small for her, and she might as well wear it out. After she was dressed she

unlocked her door and went cau tiously downstairs. She felt as if chilling hostilities might be awaiting her in

the trunk loft, on the stairway, almost anywhere. In the diningroom she found Tillie, sitting by the open

window, reading the dramatic news in a Denver Sunday paper. Tillie kept a scrapbook in which she pasted

"Come look at this picture of Pauline Hall in tights, Thea," she called. "Ain't she cute? It's too bad you didn't

go to the theater more when you was in Chicago; such a good chance! Didn't you even get to see Clara

"No; I didn't have time. Besides, it costs money, Tillie," Thea replied wearily, glancing at the paper Tillie

Tillie looked up at her niece. "Don't you go and be upset about any of Anna's notions. She's one of these

narrow kind. Your father and mother don't pay any atten tion to what she says. Anna's fussy; she is with me,

Thea knew that Tillie hoped she would stay and talk to her for a while, and she would have liked to please

her. But in a house as small as that one, everything was too intimate and mixed up together. The family was

the family, an integral thing. One couldn't discuss Anna there. She felt differently toward the house and

everything in it, as if the battered old furniture that seemed so kindly, and the old carpets on which she had

played, had been nour ishing a secret grudge against her and were not to be trusted any more.

She went aimlessly out of the front gate, not know ing what to do with herself. Mexican Town, somehow,

was spoiled for her just then, and she felt that she would hide if she saw Silvo or Felipe coming toward her.

She walked down through the empty main street. All the stores were closed, their blinds down. On the steps

of the bank some idle boys were sitting, telling disgusting stories because there was nothing else to do.

Several of them had gone to school with Thea, but when she nodded to them they hung their heads and did

not speak. Thea's body was often curiously expressive of what was going on in her mind, and tonight there

was something in her walk and carriage that made these boys feel that she was "stuck up." If she had stopped

and talked to them, they would have thawed out on the instant and would have been friendly and grateful. But

Thea was hurt afresh, and walked on, holding her chin higher than ever. As she passed the Duke Block, she

saw a light in Dr. Archie's office, and she went up the stairs and opened the door into his study. She found

him with a pile of papers and account books before him. He pointed her to her old chair at the end of his

desk and leaned back in his own, looking at her with satisfaction. How handsome she was growing!

"I'm still chasing the elusive metal, Thea,"he pointed to the papers before him,"I'm up to my neck in

"I hope you will; awfully rich. That's the only thing that counts." She looked restlessly about the consulting

room. "To do any of the things one wants to do, one has to have lots and lots of money."

Thea shrugged. "Oh, I can get along, in a little way." She looked intently out of the window at the arc street

lamp that was just beginning to sputter. "But it's silly to live at all for little things," she added quietly.

Dr. Archie rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, dropped his chin on his clasped hands and looked at

her. "Living is no trouble for little people, believe me!" he exclaimed. "What do you want to get out of it?"

"But what? Money? You mentioned that. Well, you can make money, if you care about that more than any

"But I don't. That's only one thing. Anyhow, I couldn't if I did." She pulled her dress lower at the neck as if

she were suffocating. "I only want impossible things," she said roughly. "The others don't interest me."

Dr. Archie watched her contemplatively, as if she were a beaker full of chemicals working. A few years ago,

when she used to sit there, the light from under his green lamp shade used to fall full upon her broad face

and yellow pig tails. Now her face was in the shadow and the line of light fell below her bare throat, directly

across her bosom. The shrunken white organdie rose and fell as if she were strug gling to be free and to

break out of it altogether. He felt that her heart must be laboring heavily in there, but he was afraid to touch

her; he was, indeed. He had never seen her like this before. Her hair, piled high on her head, gave her a

"Thea," he said slowly, "I won't say that you can have everything you wantthat means having nothing, in

reality. But if you decide what it is you want most, YOU CAN GET IT." His eye caught hers for a moment.

"Not every body can, but you can. Only, if you want a big thing, you've got to have nerve enough to cut out

all that's easy, everything that's to be had cheap." Dr. Archie paused. He picked up a papercutter and, feeling

Thea's lips parted; she looked at him from under a frown, searching his face. "Do you mean to break loose,

"I mean to get rich, if you call that doing anything. I've found what I can do without. You make such bar

Thea sprang up and took the papercutter he had put down, twisting it in her hands. "A long while first,

some times," she said with a short laugh. "But suppose one can never get out what they've got in them?

Suppose they make a mess of it in the end; then what?" She threw the papercutter on the desk and took a

step toward the doctor, until her dress touched him. She stood looking down at him. "Oh, it's easy to fail!"

She was breathing through her mouth and her throat was throbbing with excitement.

As he looked up at her, Dr. Archie's hands tightened on the arms of his chair. He had thought he knew Thea

Kron borg pretty well, but he did not know the girl who was standing there. She was beautiful, as his little

Swede had never been, but she frightened him. Her pale cheeks, her parted lips, her flashing eyes, seemed

suddenly to mean one thinghe did not know what. A light seemed to break upon her from far awayor

perhaps from far within. She seemed to grow taller, like a scarf drawn out long; looked as if she were pursued

and fleeing, andyes, she looked tormented. "It's easy to fail," he heard her say again, "and if I fail, you'd

better forget about me, for I'll be one of the worst women that ever lived. I'll be an awful woman!"

In the shadowy light above the lampshade he caught her glance again and held it for a moment. Wild as her

eyes were, that yellow gleam at the back of them was as hard as a diamond drillpoint. He rose with a

nervous laugh and dropped his hand lightly on her shoulder. "No, you won't. You'll be a splendid one!"

She shook him off before he could say anything more, and went out of his door with a kind of bound. She left

so quickly and so lightly that he could not even hear her foot step in the hallway outside. Archie dropped

So it went; one loved a quaint little girl, cheerful, in dustrious, always on the run and hustling through her

tasks; and suddenly one lost her. He had thought he knew that child like the glove on his hand. But about this

tall girl who threw up her head and glittered like that all over, he knew nothing. She was goaded by desires,

ambitions, revulsions that were dark to him. One thing he knew: the old highroad of life, worn safe and easy,

After that night Thea could have asked pretty much anything of him. He could have refused her nothing.

Years ago a crafty little bunch of hair and smiles had shown him what she wanted, and he had promptly

married her. Tonight a very different sort of girldriven wild by doubts and youth, by poverty and

richeshad let him see the fierceness of her nature. She went out still dis traught, not knowing or caring

what she had shown him. But to Archie knowledge of that sort was obligation. Oh, he was the same old

That Sunday in July was the turningpoint; Thea's peace of mind did not come back. She found it hard even

to practice at home. There was something in the air there that froze her throat. In the morning, she walked as

far as she could walk. In the hot afternoons she lay on her bed in her nightgown, planning fiercely. She

haunted the postoffice. She must have worn a path in the sidewalk that led to the postoffice, that summer.

She was there the moment the mailsacks came up from the depot, morning and evening, and while the

letters were being sorted and distributed she paced up and down outside, under the cottonwood trees,

listening to the thump, thump, thump of Mr. Thompson's stamp. She hung upon any sort of word from

Chicago; a card from Bowers, a letter from Mrs. Harsanyi, from Mr. Larsen, from her landlady,anything to

reassure her that Chicago was still there. She began to feel the same restlessness that had tortured her the last

spring when she was teaching in Moonstone. Suppose she never got away again, after all? Suppose one broke

a leg and had to lie in bed at home for weeks, or had pneumonia and died there. The desert was so big and

This time, when Thea left Moonstone to go back to Chicago, she went alone. As the train pulled out, she

looked back at her mother and father and Thor. They were calm and cheerful; they did not know, they did not

un derstand. Something pulled in herand broke. She cried all the way to Denver, and that night, in her

berth, she kept sobbing and waking herself. But when the sun rose in the morning, she was far away. It was

all behind her, and she knew that she would never cry like that again. People live through such pain only

once; pain comes again, but it finds a tougher surface. Thea remembered how she had gone away the first

time, with what confidence in everything, and what pitiful ignorance. Such a silly! She felt resentful toward

that stupid, goodnatured child. How much older she was now, and how much harder! She was going away

So many grinning, stupid faces! Thea was sitting by the window in Bowers's studio, waiting for him to come

back from lunch. On her knee was the latest number of an illustrated musical journal in which musicians

great and little stridently advertised their wares. Every afternoon she played accompaniments for people who

Thea had been in Chicago for two months. She had a small church position which partly paid her living ex

penses, and she paid for her singing lessons by playing Bowers's accompaniments every afternoon from two

until six. She had been compelled to leave her old friends Mrs. Lorch and Mrs. Andersen, because the long

ride from North Chicago to Bowers's studio on Michigan Avenue took too much timean hour in the

morning, and at night, when the cars were crowded, an hour and a half. For the first month she had clung to

her old room, but the bad air in the cars, at the end of a long day's work, fatigued her greatly and was bad for

her voice. Since she left Mrs. Lorch, she had been staying at a students' club to which she was introduced by

Miss Adler, Bowers's morning ac companist, an intelligent Jewish girl from Evanston.

Thea took her lesson from Bowers every day from eleventhirty until twelve. Then she went out to lunch

with an Italian grammar under her arm, and came back to the studio to begin her work at two. In the

afternoon Bowers coached professionals and taught his advanced pupils. It was his theory that Thea ought to

be able to learn a great deal by keeping her ears open while she played for him.

The concertgoing public of Chicago still remembers the long, sallow, discontented face of Madison Bowers.

He seldom missed an evening concert, and was usually to be seen lounging somewhere at the back of the

concert hall, reading a newspaper or review, and conspicuously ignoring the efforts of the performers. At the

end of a number he looked up from his paper long enough to sweep the ap plauding audience with a

contemptuous eye. His face was intelligent, with a narrow lower jaw, a thin nose, faded gray eyes, and a

closecut brown mustache. His hair was irongray, thin and deadlooking. He went to concerts chiefly to

satisfy himself as to how badly things were done and how gullible the public was. He hated the whole race of

artists; the work they did, the wages they got, and the way they spent their money. His father, old Hiram

Bowers, was still alive and at work, a genial old choirmaster in Bos ton, full of enthusiasm at seventy. But

Madison was of the colder stuff of his grandfathers, a long line of New Hamp shire farmers; hard workers,

close traders, with good minds, mean natures, and flinty eyes. As a boy Madison had a fine barytone voice,

and his father made great sacrifices for him, sending him to Germany at an early age and keep ing him

abroad at his studies for years. Madison worked under the best teachers, and afterward sang in England in

oratorio. His cold nature and academic methods were against him. His audiences were always aware of the

contempt he felt for them. A dozen poorer singers suc ceeded, but Bowers did not.

Bowers had all the qualities which go to make a good teacherexcept generosity and warmth. His

intelligence was of a high order, his taste never at fault. He seldom worked with a voice without improving it,

and in teach ing the delivery of oratorio he was without a rival. Sing ers came from far and near to study

Bach and Handel with him. Even the fashionable sopranos and contraltos of Chicago, St. Paul, and St. Louis

(they were usually ladies with very rich husbands, and Bowers called them the "pampered jades of Asia")

humbly endured his sardonic humor for the sake of what he could do for them. He was not at all above

helping a very lame singer across, if her husband's checkbook warranted it. He had a whole bag of tricks for

stupid people, "lifepreservers," he called them. "Cheap repairs for a cheap 'un," he used to say, but the

husbands never found the repairs very cheap. Those were the days when lumbermen's daughters and brewers'

wives contended in song; studied in Germany and then floated from SANGERFEST to SANGERFEST.

Choral so cieties flourished in all the rich lake cities and river cities. The soloists came to Chicago to coach

with Bowers, and he often took long journeys to hear and instruct a chorus. He was intensely avaricious, and

from these semiprofes sionals he reaped a golden harvest. They fed his pockets and they fed his

everhungry contempt, his scorn of him self and his accomplices. The more money he made, the more

parsimonious he became. His wife was so shabby that she never went anywhere with him, which suited him

exactly. Because his clients were luxurious and extrava gant, he took a revengeful pleasure in having his

shoes half soled a second time, and in getting the last wear out of a broken collar. He had first been

interested in Thea Kron borg because of her bluntness, her country roughness, and her manifest carefulness

about money. The mention of Harsanyi's name always made him pull a wry face. For the first time Thea had

a friend who, in his own cool and guarded way, liked her for whatever was least admirable in her.

Thea was still looking at the musical paper, her grammar unopened on the windowsill, when Bowers

sauntered in a little before two o'clock. He was smoking a cheap cigar ette and wore the same soft felt hat he

Thea followed him from the receptionroom into the studio. "I may cut my lesson out tomorrow, Mr.

Bowers looked up languidly from his desk where he had begun to go over a pile of letters. "What's the matter

Bowers lifted his eyebrows. "Why so tempery?" he asked as he drew a check from an envelope postmarked

"I can't work with a lot of girls around. They're too familiar. I never could get along with girls of my own age.

It's all too chummy. Gets on my nerves. I didn't come here to play kindergarten games." Thea began

Bowers grimaced goodhumoredly at her over the three checks he was pinning together. He liked to play at a

rough game of banter with her. He flattered himself that he had made her harsher than she was when she first

came to him; that he had got off a little of the sugarcoating Harsanyi always put on his pupils.

"The art of making yourself agreeable never comes amiss, Miss Kronborg. I should say you rather need a

little practice along that line. When you come to market ing your wares in the world, a little smoothness

goes farther than a great deal of talent sometimes. If you hap pen to be cursed with a real talent, then you've

got to be very smooth indeed, or you'll never get your money back." Bowers snapped the elastic band around

Thea gave him a sharp, recognizing glance. "Well, that's the money I'll have to go without," she replied.

"I mean the money people have to grin for. I used to know a railroad man who said there was money in every

profession that you couldn't take. He'd tried a good many jobs," Thea added musingly; "perhaps he was too

particular about the kind he could take, for he never picked up much. He was proud, but I liked him for that."

Bowers rose and closed his desk. "Mrs. Priest is late again. By the way, Miss Kronborg, remember not to

"You mean when she hits a tone with her breath like that? Why do you let her? You wouldn't let me."

"I certainly would not. But that is a mannerism of Mrs. Priest's. The public like it, and they pay a great deal of

Bowers opened the door of the receptionroom and a tall, imposing woman rustled in, bringing with her a

glow of animation which pervaded the room as if half a dozen persons, all talking gayly, had come in instead

of one. She was large, handsome, expansive, uncontrolled; one felt this the moment she crossed the threshold.

She shone with care and cleanliness, mature vigor, unchallenged authority, gracious goodhumor, and

absolute confidence in her per son, her powers, her position, and her way of life; a glowing, overwhelming

selfsatisfaction, only to be found where human society is young and strong and without yesterdays. Her face

had a kind of heavy, thoughtless beauty, like a pink peony just at the point of beginning to fade. Her brown

hair was waved in front and done up behind in a great twist, held by a tortoiseshell comb with gold fili gree.

She wore a beautiful little green hat with three long green feathers sticking straight up in front, a little cape

made of velvet and fur with a yellow satin rose on it. Her gloves, her shoes, her veil, somehow made

themselves felt. She gave the impression of wearing a cargo of splendid merchandise.

Mrs. Priest nodded graciously to Thea, coquettishly to Bowers, and asked him to untie her veil for her. She

threw her splendid wrap on a chair, the yellow lining out. Thea was already at the piano. Mrs. Priest stood

"`Rejoice Greatly' first, please. And please don't hurry it in there," she put her arm over Thea's shoulder, and

indicated the passage by a sweep of her white glove. She threw out her chest, clasped her hands over her

abdomen, lifted her chin, worked the muscles of her cheeks back and forth for a moment, and then began

Bowers paced the room with his catlike tread. When he checked Mrs. Priest's vehemence at all, he handled

her roughly; poked and hammered her massive person with cold satisfaction, almost as if he were taking out a

grudge on this splendid creation. Such treatment the imposing lady did not at all resent. She tried harder and

harder, her eyes growing all the while more lustrous and her lips redder. Thea played on as she was told,

When she first heard Mrs. Priest sing in church, Thea admired her. Since she had found out how dull the

good natured soprano really was, she felt a deep contempt for her. She felt that Mrs. Priest ought to be

reproved and even punished for her shortcomings; that she ought to be exposed,at least to herself,and

not be permitted to live and shine in happy ignorance of what a poor thing it was she brought across so

radiantly. Thea's cold looks of reproof were lost upon Mrs. Priest; although the lady did murmur one day

when she took Bowers home in her carriage, "How handsome your afternoon girl would be if she did not

have that unfortunate squint; it gives her that vacant Swede look, like an animal." That amused Bowers. He

One of the first disappointments Thea had to face when she returned to Chicago that fall, was the news that

the Harsanyis were not coming back. They had spent the summer in a camp in the Adirondacks and were

moving to New York. An old teacher and friend of Harsanyi's, one of the bestknown piano teachers in New

York, was about to retire because of failing health and had arranged to turn his pupils over to Harsanyi.

Andor was to give two recitals in New York in November, to devote him self to his new students until

spring, and then to go on a short concert tour. The Harsanyis had taken a furnished apartment in New York,

as they would not attempt to settle a place of their own until Andor's recitals were over. The first of

December, however, Thea received a note from Mrs. Harsanyi, asking her to call at the old studio, where she

The morning after this invitation reached her, Thea climbed the stairs and knocked at the familiar door. Mrs.

Harsanyi herself opened it, and embraced her visitor warmly. Taking Thea into the studio, which was littered

with excelsior and packingcases, she stood holding her hand and looking at her in the strong light from the

big window before she allowed her to sit down. Her quick eye saw many changes. The girl was taller, her

figure had be come definite, her carriage positive. She had got used to living in the body of a young woman,

and she no longer tried to ignore it and behave as if she were a little girl. With that increased independence of

body there had come a change in her face; an indifference, something hard and skeptical. Her clothes, too,

were different, like the attire of a shopgirl who tries to follow the fashions; a purple suit, a piece of cheap fur,

a threecornered purple hat with a pompon sticking up in front. The queer country clothes she used to wear

suited her much better, Mrs. Harsanyi thought. But such trifles, after all, were accidental and remediable. She

"How much the summer has done for you! Yes, you are a young lady at last. Andor will be so glad to hear

Thea looked about at the disorder of the familiar room. The pictures were piled in a corner, the piano and the

CHAISE LONGUE were gone. "I suppose I ought to be glad you have gone away," she said, "but I'm not. It's

Mrs. Harsanyi gave her a quick glance that said more than words. "If you knew how long I have wanted to

get him away from here, Miss Kronborg! He is never tired, never discouraged, now."

Thea sighed. "I'm glad for that, then." Her eyes traveled over the faint discolorations on the walls where the

pictures had hung. "I may run away myself. I don't know whether I can stand it here without you."

"We hope that you can come to New York to study before very long. We have thought of that. And you must

tell me how you are getting on with Bowers. Andor will want to know all about it."

"I guess I get on more or less. But I don't like my work very well. It never seems serious as my work with Mr.

Harsanyi did. I play Bowers's accompaniments in the afternoons, you know. I thought I would learn a good

Mrs. Harsanyi looked at her inquiringly. Thea took out a carefully folded handkerchief from the bosom of her

dress and began to draw the corners apart. "Singing doesn't seem to be a very brainy profession, Mrs. Har

sanyi," she said slowly. "The people I see now are not a bit like the ones I used to meet here. Mr. Harsanyi's

pupils, even the dumb ones, had morewell, more of everything, it seems to me. The people I have to play

accompaniments for are discouraging. The professionals, like Katharine Priest and Miles Murdstone, are

worst of all. If I have to play `The Messiah' much longer for Mrs. Priest, I'll go out of my mind!" Thea

Mrs. Harsanyi looked down at the foot in perplexity. "You mustn't wear such high heels, my dear. They will

spoil your walk and make you mince along. Can't you at least learn to avoid what you dislike in these

Thea was sitting with her chin lowered. Without mov ing her head she looked up at Mrs. Harsanyi and

smiled; a smile much too cold and desperate to be seen on a young face, Mrs. Harsanyi felt. "Mrs. Harsanyi,

it seems to me that what I learn is just TO DISLIKE. I dislike so much and so hard that it tires me out. I've

got no heart for any thing." She threw up her head suddenly and sat in defi ance, her hand clenched on the

arm of the chair. "Mr. Harsanyi couldn't stand these people an hour, I know he couldn't. He'd put them right

out of the window there, frizzes and feathers and all. Now, take that new soprano they're all making such a

fuss about, Jessie Darcey. She's going on tour with a symphony orchestra and she's work ing up her

repertory with Bowers. She's singing some Schumann songs Mr. Harsanyi used to go over with me. Well, I

"But if your own work goes well, and you know these people are wrong, why do you let them discourage

Thea shook her head. "That's just what I don't under stand myself. Only, after I've heard them all afternoon,

I come out frozen up. Somehow it takes the shine off of everything. People want Jessie Darcey and the kind

Mrs. Harsanyi smiled. "That stile you must simply vault over. You must not begin to fret about the suc

"Well, if I had somebody like Mr. Harsanyi, perhaps I wouldn't fret about them. He was the teacher for me.

Thea rose and Mrs. Harsanyi took her hand again. "I am sorry you have to go through this time of

discourage ment. I wish Andor could talk to you, he would under stand it so well. But I feel like urging

Thea laughed discordantly. "No use urging me. I don't get on with them AT ALL. My spine gets like a steel

rail when they come near me. I liked them at first, you know. Their clothes and their manners were so fine,

and Mrs. Priest IS handsome. But now I keep wanting to tell them how stupid they are. Seems like they ought

to be informed, don't you think so?" There was a flash of the shrewd grin that Mrs. Harsanyi remembered.

Thea pressed her hand. "I must go now. I had to give my lesson hour this morn ing to a Duluth woman who

has come on to coach, and I must go and play `On Mighty Pens' for her. Please tell Mr. Harsanyi that I think

Mrs. Harsanyi detained her. "But he will want to know much more than that about you. You are free at

seven? Come back this evening, then, and we will go to dinner somewhere, to some cheerful place. I think

Thea brightened. "Oh, I do! I'll love to come; that will be like old times. You see," she lingered a moment,

soft ening, "I wouldn't mind if there were only ONE of them I could really admire."

"Well, there's nothing he loves like a good fakir, and nothing he hates like a good artist. I always remember

something Mr. Harsanyi said about him. He said Bowers was the cold muffin that had been left on the plate."

Mrs. Harsanyi stopped short at the head of the stairs and said decidedly: "I think Andor made a mistake. I

can't believe that is the right atmosphere for you. It would hurt you more than most people. It's all wrong."

"Something's wrong," Thea called back as she clattered down the stairs in her high heels.

DURING that winter Thea lived in so many places that sometimes at night when she left Bowers's studio and

emerged into the street she had to stop and think for a moment to remember where she was living now and

When she moved into a new place her eyes challenged the beds, the carpets, the food, the mistress of the

house. The boardinghouses were wretchedly conducted and Thea's complaints sometimes took an insulting

form. She quarreled with one landlady after another and moved on. When she moved into a new room, she

was almost sure to hate it on sight and to begin planning to hunt another place before she unpacked her trunk.

She was moody and contemptuous toward her fellow boarders, except toward the young men, whom she

treated with a careless familiarity which they usually misunderstood. They liked her, however, and when she

left the house after a storm, they helped her to move her things and came to see her after she got settled in a

new place. But she moved so often that they soon ceased to follow her. They could see no reason for keeping

up with a girl who, under her jocularity, was cold, selfcentered, and unimpression able. They soon felt that

Thea used to waken up in the night and wonder why she was so unhappy. She would have been amazed if she

had known how much the people whom she met in Bowers's studio had to do with her low spirits. She had

never been conscious of those instinctive standards which are called ideals, and she did not know that she was

suffering for them. She often found herself sneering when she was on a streetcar, or when she was brushing

out her hair before her mirror, as some inane remark or too familiar manner ism flitted across her mind.

She felt no creature kindness, no tolerant goodwill for Mrs. Priest or Jessie Darcey. After one of Jessie Dar

cey's concerts the glowing press notices, and the admiring comments that floated about Bowers's studio,

caused Thea bitter unhappiness. It was not the torment of per sonal jealousy. She had never thought of

herself as even a possible rival of Miss Darcey. She was a poor music student, and Jessie Darcey was a

popular and petted professional. Mrs. Priest, whatever one held against her, had a fine, big, showy voice and

an impressive presence. She read indifferently, was inaccurate, and was always putting other people wrong,

but she at least had the material out of which singers can be made. But people seemed to like Jessie Darcey

exactly because she could not sing; because, as they put it, she was "so natural and unprofessional." Her

singing was pronounced "artless," her voice "birdlike." Miss Darcey was thin and awkward in person, with a

sharp, sallow face. Thea noticed that her plainness was accounted to her credit, and that people spoke of it

affectionately. Miss Darcey was sing ing everywhere just then; one could not help hearing about her. She

was backed by some of the packinghouse people and by the Chicago Northwestern Railroad. Only one critic

raised his voice against her. Thea went to several of Jessie Darcey's concerts. It was the first time she had had

an opportunity to observe the whims of the public which singers live by interesting. She saw that people liked

in Miss Darcey every quality a singer ought not to have, and especially the nervous complacency that

stamped her as a commonplace young woman. They seemed to have a warmer feeling for Jessie than for Mrs.

Priest, an affectionate and cherishing regard. Chicago was not so very different from Moonstone, after all,

Thea particularly hated to accompany for Miss Darcey because she sang off pitch and didn't mind it in the

least. It was excruciating to sit there day after day and hear her; there was something shameless and indecent

One morning Miss Darcey came by appointment to go over the programme for her Peoria concert. She was

such a fraillooking girl that Thea ought to have felt sorry for her. True, she had an arch, sprightly little

manner, and a flash of salmonpink on either brown cheek. But a nar row upper jaw gave her face a pinched

look, and her eye lids were heavy and relaxed. By the morning light, the purplish brown circles under her

eyes were pathetic enough, and foretold no long or brilliant future. A singer with a poor digestion and low

vitality; she needed no seer to cast her horoscope. If Thea had ever taken the pains to study her, she would

have seen that, under all her smiles and archness, poor Miss Darcey was really frightened to death. She could

not understand her success any more than Thea could; she kept catching her breath and lifting her eye brows

and trying to believe that it was true. Her loqua city was not natural, she forced herself to it, and when she

confided to you how many defects she could overcome by her unusual command of head resonance, she was

When she took a note that was high for her, Miss Darcey always put her right hand out into the air, as if she

were indicating height, or giving an exact measurement. Some early teacher had told her that she could

"place" a tone more surely by the help of such a gesture, and she firmly believed that it was of great

assistance to her. (Even when she was singing in public, she kept her right hand down with difficulty,

nervously clasping her white kid fingers together when she took a high note. Thea could always see her

elbows stiffen.) She unvaryingly executed this gesture with a smile of gracious confidence, as if she were

This morning, in Gounod's "Ave Maria," as Miss Dar cey approached her B natural,

out went the hand, with the sure airy gesture, though it was little above A she got with her voice, whatever

she touched with her finger. Often Bowers let such things passwith the right peoplebut this morning he

snapped his jaws together and muttered, "God!" Miss Darcey tried again, with the same gesture as of putting

the crowning touch, tilting her head and smiling radiantly at Bowers, as if to say, "It is for you I do all this!"

This time she made B flat, and went on in the happy belief that she had done well enough, when she suddenly

found that her accompanist was not going on with her, and this put her out completely.

She turned to Thea, whose hands had fallen in her lap. "Oh why did you stop just there! It IS too trying! Now

"I beg your pardon," Thea muttered. "I thought you wanted to get that B natural." She began again, as Miss

After the singer was gone, Bowers walked up to Thea and asked languidly, "Why do you hate Jessie so? Her

little variations from pitch are between her and her public; they don't hurt you. Has she ever done anything to

Bowers laughed. "No doubt about that. I'll have to suggest that you conceal it a little more effectually. That

isnecessary, Miss Kronborg," he added, looking back over the shoulder of the overcoat he was putting on.

He went out to lunch and Thea thought the subject closed. But late in the afternoon, when he was taking his

dyspepsia tablet and a glass of water between lessons, he looked up and said in a voice ironically coaxing:

Taken by surprise Thea put down the score she was reading and answered before she knew what she was

Bowers balanced the tablet on the end of his long fore finger and whistled softly. "And how did you form

"I don't know." Thea flushed and spoke under her breath; "but I suppose I got most of it from Harsanyi."

Bowers made no comment upon this reply, but opened the door for the next pupil, who was waiting in the

It was dark when Thea left the studio that night. She knew she had offended Bowers. Somehow she had hurt

herself, too. She felt unequal to the boardinghouse table, the sneaking divinity student who sat next her and

had tried to kiss her on the stairs last night. She went over to the waterside of Michigan Avenue and walked

along beside the lake. It was a clear, frosty winter night. The great empty space over the water was restful and

spoke of freedom. If she had any money at all, she would go away. The stars glittered over the wide black

water. She looked up at them wearily and shook her head. She believed that what she felt was despair, but it

was only one of the forms of hope. She felt, indeed, as if she were bid ding the stars goodbye; but she was

renewing a promise. Though their challenge is universal and eternal, the stars get no answer but that,the

brief light flashed back to them from the eyes of the young who unaccountably aspire.

The rich, noisy, city, fat with food and drink, is a spent thing; its chief concern is its digestion and its little

game of hideandseek with the undertaker. Money and office and success are the consolations of

impotence. For tune turns kind to such solid people and lets them suck their bone in peace. She flecks her

whip upon flesh that is more alive, upon that stream of hungry boys and girls who tramp the streets of every

city, recognizable by their pride and discontent, who are the Future, and who possess the treasure of creative

WHILE her living arrangements were so casual and fortuitous, Bowers's studio was the one fixed thing in

Thea's life. She went out from it to uncertainties, and hastened to it from nebulous confusion. She was more

influenced by Bowers than she knew. Unconsciously she began to take on something of his dry contempt, and

to share his grudge without understanding exactly what it was about. His cynicism seemed to her honest, and

the amiability of his pupils artificial. She admired his drastic treatment of his dull pupils. The stupid deserved

One afternoon when Bowers came in from lunch Thea handed him a card on which he read the name, "Mr.

"He said he would be in again tomorrow and that he wanted some time. Who is he? I like him better than

Bowers nodded. "So do I. He's not a singer. He's a beer prince: son of the big brewer in St. Louis. He's been

"Now and again. He sings rather well. He's at the head of the Chicago branch of the Ottenburg business, but

he can't stick to work and is always running away. He has great ideas in beer, people tell me. He's what they

call an imaginative business man; goes over to Bayreuth and seems to do nothing but give parties and spend

money, and brings back more good notions for the brewery than the fellows who sit tight dig out in five

years. I was born too long ago to be much taken in by these chesty boys with flowered vests, but I like Fred,

Bowers made a sound between a cough and a laugh. "Oh, he's a ladykiller, all right! The girls in here are al

ways making eyes at him. You won't be the first." He threw some sheets of music on the piano. "Better look

that over; accompaniment's a little tricky. It's for that new woman from Detroit. And Mrs. Priest will be in

"The same. She starts on her concert tour next week, and we'll have a rest. Until then, I suppose we'll have to

The next day Thea hurried through her luncheon at a German bakery and got back to the studio at ten minutes

past one. She felt sure that the young brewer would come early, before it was time for Bowers to arrive. He

had not said he would, but yesterday, when he opened the door to go, he had glanced about the room and at

Sure enough, at twenty minutes past one the door of the receptionroom opened, and a tall, robust young man

with a cane and an English hat and ulster looked in expect antly. "Ahha!" he exclaimed, "I thought if I

Thea was sitting in the window chair. At her left elbow there was a table, and upon this table the young man

sat down, holding his hat and cane in his hand, loosening his long coat so that it fell back from his shoulders.

He was a gleaming, florid young fellow. His hair, thick and yellow, was cut very short, and he wore a closely

trimmed beard, long enough on the chin to curl a little. Even his eye brows were thick and yellow, like

fleece. He had lively blue eyesThea looked up at them with great interest as he sat chatting and swinging

his foot rhythmically. He was easily familiar, and frankly so. Wherever people met young Ottenburg, in his

office, on shipboard, in a foreign hotel or railway compartment, they always felt (and usually liked) that

artless presumption which seemed to say, "In this case we may waive formalities. We really haven't time.

This is today, but it will soon be tomorrow, and then we may be very different people, and in some other

country." He had a way of floating people out of dull or awkward situations, out of their own torpor or

constraint or discouragement. It was a marked personal talent, of almost incalculable value in the

representative of a great business founded on social amenities. Thea had liked him yesterday for the way in

which he had picked her up out of herself and her German grammar for a few exciting moments.

"By the way, will you tell me your first name, please? Thea? Oh, then you ARE a Swede, sure enough! I

thought so. Let me call you Miss Thea, after the German fashion. You won't mind? Of course not!" He

usually made his assumption of a special understanding seem a tribute to the other person and not to himself.

"How long have you been with Bowers here? Do you like the old grouch? So do I. I've come to tell him about

a new soprano I heard at Bayreuth. He'll pretend not to care, but he does. Do you warble with him? Have you

anything of a voice? Honest? You look it, you know. What are you going in for, something big? Opera?"

Thea blushed crimson. "Oh, I'm not going in for any thing. I'm trying to learn to sing at funerals."

Ottenburg leaned forward. His eyes twinkled. "I'll engage you to sing at mine. You can't fool me, Miss Thea.

He picked up a roll of music that lay behind him on the table. "Is this yours? Let me see what you are doing."

He snapped back the clasp and began turning over the songs. "All very fine, but tame. What's he got you at

this Mozart stuff for? I shouldn't think it would suit your voice. Oh, I can make a pretty good guess at what

will suit you! This from `Gioconda' is more in your line. What's this Grieg? It looks interesting. TAK FOR

"No; not at all. Let's try it." He rose, pushed open the door into the musicroom, and motioned Thea to enter

Ottenburg took her gently by the elbow and pushed her into the other room. He sat down carelessly at the

piano and looked over the music for a moment. "I think I can get you through it. But how stupid not to have

the Ger man words. Can you really sing the Norwegian? What an infernal language to sing. Translate the

Thea looked at it, then at him, and shook her head. "I can't. The truth is I don't know either English or

Swedish very well, and Norwegian's still worse," she said confi dentially. She not infrequently refused to do

what she was asked to do, but it was not like her to explain her refusal, even when she had a good reason.

"I understand. We immigrants never speak any lan guage well. But you know what it means, don't you?"

Thea continued to frown, but she also smiled. She was confused, but not embarrassed. She was not afraid of

Ottenburg. He was not one of those people who made her spine like a steel rail. On the contrary, he made one

"Well, it goes something like this: Thanks for your ad vice! But I prefer to steer my boat into the din of

roaring breakers. Even if the journey is my last, I may find what I have never found before. Onward must I

go, for I yearn for the wild sea. I long to fight my way through the angry waves, and to see how far, and how

Ottenburg took the music and began: "Wait a moment. Is that too fast? How do you take it? That right?" He

pulled up his cuffs and began the accompaniment again. He had become entirely serious, and he played with

Fred's talent was worth almost as much to old Otto Ottenburg as the steady industry of his older sons. When

Fred sang the Prize Song at an interstate meet of the TURNVEREIN, ten thousand TURNERS went forth

As Thea finished the song Fred turned back to the first page, without looking up from the music. "Now, once

more," he called. They began again, and did not hear Bowers when he came in and stood in the doorway. He

stood still, blinking like an owl at their two heads shining in the sun. He could not see their faces, but there

was something about his girl's back that he had not noticed be fore: a very slight and yet very free motion,

from the toes up. Her whole back seemed plastic, seemed to be mould ing itself to the galloping rhythm of

the song. Bowers perceived such things sometimesunwillingly. He had known today that there was

something afoot. The river of sound which had its source in his pupil had caught him two flights down. He

had stopped and listened with a kind of sneering admiration. From the door he watched her with a

When he had struck the keys for the last time, Otten burg dropped his hands on his knees and looked up

with a quick breath. "I got you through. What a stunning song! Did I play it right?"

Thea studied his excited face. There was a good deal of meaning in it, and there was a good deal in her own

After Ottenburg was gone, Thea noticed that Bowers was more agreeable than usual. She had heard the

young brewer ask Bowers to dine with him at his club that even ing, and she saw that he looked forward to

the dinner with pleasure. He dropped a remark to the effect that Fred knew as much about food and wines as

"If he's such a grand business man, how does he have time to run around listening to singinglessons?" Thea

As she went home to her boardinghouse through the February slush, she wished she were going to dine with

them. At nine o'clock she looked up from her grammar to wonder what Bowers and Ottenburg were having to

THEA noticed that Bowers took rather more pains with her now that Fred Ottenburg often dropped in at

eleventhirty to hear her lesson. After the lesson the young man took Bowers off to lunch with him, and

Bowers liked good food when another man paid for it. He encouraged Fred's visits, and Thea soon saw that

One morning, after her lesson, Ottenburg turned to Bowers. "If you'll lend me Miss Thea, I think I have an

engagement for her. Mrs. Henry Nathanmeyer is going to give three musical evenings in April, first three

Saturdays, and she has consulted me about soloists. For the first evening she has a young violinist, and she

would be charmed to have Miss Kronborg. She will pay fifty dollars. Not much, but Miss Thea would meet

Bowers passed the question on to Thea. "I guess you could use the fifty, couldn't you, Miss Kronborg? You

Thea was perplexed. "I need the money awfully," she said frankly; "but I haven't got the right clothes for that

Ottenburg spoke up quickly, "Oh, you'd make nothing out of it if you went to buying evening clothes. I've

thought of that. Mrs. Nathanmeyer has a troop of daugh ters, a perfect seraglio, all ages and sizes. She'll be

glad to fit you out, if you aren't sensitive about wearing kosher clothes. Let me take you to see her, and you'll

find that she'll arrange that easily enough. I told her she must produce something nice, blue or yellow, and

properly cut. I brought half a dozen Worth gowns through the customs for her two weeks ago, and she's not

"Tomorrow evening, then? I shall call for you at eight. Bring all your songs along; she will want us to give

her a little rehearsal, perhaps. I'll play your accompaniments, if you've no objection. That will save money for

you and for Mrs. Nathanmeyer. She needs it." Ottenburg chuckled as he took down the number of Thea's

The Nathanmeyers were so rich and great that even Thea had heard of them, and this seemed a very

remarkable opportunity. Ottenburg had brought it about by merely lifting a finger, apparently. He was a beer

The next evening at a quarter to eight Thea was dressed and waiting in the boardinghouse parlor. She was

ner vous and fidgety and found it difficult to sit still on the hard, convex upholstery of the chairs. She tried

them one after another, moving about the dimly lighted, musty room, where the gas always leaked gently and

sang in the burners. There was no one in the parlor but the medical student, who was playing one of Sousa's

marches so vigor ously that the china ornaments on the top of the piano rattled. In a few moments some of

the pensionoffice girls would come in and begin to twostep. Thea wished that Ottenburg would come and

let her escape. She glanced at herself in the long, somber mirror. She was wearing her paleblue broadcloth

church dress, which was not un becoming but was certainly too heavy to wear to any body's house in the

evening. Her slippers were run over at the heel and she had not had time to have them mended, and her white

gloves were not so clean as they should be. However, she knew that she would forget these annoying things

Mary, the Hungarian chambermaid, came to the door, stood between the plush portieres, beckoned to Thea,

and made an inarticulate sound in her throat. Thea jumped up and ran into the hall, where Ottenburg stood

smiling, his caped cloak open, his silk hat in his whitekid hand. The Hungarian girl stood like a monument

on her flat heels, staring at the pink carnation in Ottenburg's coat. Her broad, pockmarked face wore the only

expression of which it was capable, a kind of animal wonder. As the young man followed Thea out, he

glanced back over his shoulder through the crack of the door; the Hun clapped her hands over her stomach,

"Isn't she awful?" Thea exclaimed. "I think she's halfwitted. Can you understand her?"

Ottenburg laughed as he helped her into the carriage. "Oh, yes; I can understand her!" He settled himself on

the front seat opposite Thea. "Now, I want to tell you about the people we are going to see. We may have a

musical public in this country some day, but as yet there are only the Germans and the Jews. All the other

people go to hear Jessie Darcey sing, `O, Promise Me!' The Nathanmeyers are the finest kind of Jews. If you

do any thing for Mrs. Henry Nathanmeyer, you must put your self into her hands. Whatever she says about

music, about clothes, about life, will be correct. And you may feel at ease with her. She expects nothing of

people; she has lived in Chicago twenty years. If you were to behave like the Magyar who was so interested

in my buttonhole, she would not be surprised. If you were to sing like Jessie Darcey, she would not be

"Would she? Well, that's the kind of people I want to find." Thea felt herself growing bolder.

"You will be all right with her so long as you do not try to be anything that you are not. Her standards have

noth ing to do with Chicago. Her perceptionsor her grand mother's, which is the same thingwere keen

when all this was an Indian village. So merely be yourself, and you will like her. She will like you because

the Jews always sense talent, and," he added ironically, "they admire cer tain qualities of feeling that are

Thea looked into the young man's face as the light of a street lamp flashed into the carriage. His somewhat

"What makes you take such an interest in singers?" she asked curiously. "You seem to have a perfect passion

"I'm not interested in singers." His tone was offended. "I am interested in talent. There are only two

"What's the other?" The question came meekly from the figure opposite him. Another arclight flashed in at

Fred saw her face and broke into a laugh. "Why, you're guying me, you little wretch! You won't let me

behave properly." He dropped his gloved hand lightly on her knee, took it away and let it hang between his

own. "Do you know," he said confidentially, "I believe I'm more in earnest about all this than you are."

"Oh! I'm in earnest all right; only I never was much good at talking. Jessie Darcey is the smooth talker. `You

notice the effect I get there' If she only got 'em, she'd be a wonder, you know!"

Mr. and Mrs. Nathanmeyer were alone in their great library. Their three unmarried daughters had departed in

successive carriages, one to a dinner, one to a Nietszche club, one to a ball given for the girls employed in the

big department stores. When Ottenburg and Thea entered, Henry Nathanmeyer and his wife were sitting at a

table at the farther end of the long room, with a readinglamp and a tray of cigarettes and cordialglasses

between them. The overhead lights were too soft to bring out the colors of the big rugs, and none of the

picture lights were on. One could merely see that there were pictures there. Fred whispered that they were

Rousseaus and Corots, very fine ones which the old banker had bought long ago for next to nothing. In the

hall Ottenburg had stopped Thea before a painting of a woman eating grapes out of a paper bag, and had told

her gravely that there was the most beautiful Manet in the world. He made her take off her hat and gloves in

the hall, and looked her over a little before he took her in. But once they were in the library he seemed

Mrs. Nathanmeyer was a heavy, powerful old Jewess, with a great pompadour of white hair, a swarthy

complex ion, an eagle nose, and sharp, glittering eyes. She wore a black velvet dress with a long train, and a

diamond necklace and earrings. She took Thea to the other side of the table and presented her to Mr.

Nathanmeyer, who apologized for not rising, pointing to a slippered foot on a cushion; he said that he

suffered from gout. He had a very soft voice and spoke with an accent which would have been heavy if it had

not been so caressing. He kept Thea stand ing beside him for some time. He noticed that she stood easily,

looked straight down into his face, and was not embarrassed. Even when Mrs. Nathanmeyer told Otten burg

to bring a chair for Thea, the old man did not release her hand, and she did not sit down. He admired her just

as she was, as she happened to be standing, and she felt it. He was much handsomer than his wife, Thea

thought. His forehead was high, his hair soft and white, his skin pink, a little puffy under his clear blue eyes.

She noticed how warm and delicate his hands were, pleasant to touch and beauti ful to look at. Ottenburg

had told her that Mr. Nathan meyer had a very fine collection of medals and cameos, and his fingers looked

He asked Thea where Moonstone was; how many in habitants it had; what her father's business was; from

what part of Sweden her grandfather came; and whether she spoke Swedish as a child. He was interested to

hear that her mother's mother was still living, and that her grand father had played the oboe. Thea felt at

home standing there beside him; she felt that he was very wise, and that he some way took one's life up and

looked it over kindly, as if it were a story. She was sorry when they left him to go into the musicroom.

As they reached the door of the musicroom, Mrs. Nathanmeyer turned a switch that threw on many lights.

The room was even larger than the library, all glittering surfaces, with two Steinway pianos.

Mrs. Nathanmeyer rang for her own maid. "Selma will take you upstairs, Miss Kronborg, and you will find

some dresses on the bed. Try several of them, and take the one you like best. Selma will help you. She has a

great deal of taste. When you are dressed, come down and let us go over some of your songs with Mr.

After Thea went away with the maid, Ottenburg came up to Mrs. Nathanmeyer and stood beside her, resting

"I think so. I liked her when she talked to father. She will always get on better with men."

"About her beauty? She has great possibilities, but you can never tell about those Northern women. They

look so strong, but they are easily battered. The face falls so early under those wide cheekbones. A single

ideahate or greed, or even lovecan tear them to shreds. She is nineteen? Well, in ten years she may have

quite a regal beauty, or she may have a heavy, discontented face, all dug out in channels. That will depend

The old Jewess folded her arms over her massive chest, drew back her shoulders, and looked up at the young

man. "With that hard glint in her eye? The people won't mat ter much, I fancy. They will come and go. She

Ottenburg frowned. "Wait until you hear her sing. Her eyes are different then. That gleam that comes in them

The object of this discussion came in, smiling. She had chosen neither the blue nor the yellow gown, but a

pale rosecolor, with silver butterflies. Mrs. Nathanmeyer lifted her lorgnette and studied her as she

approached. She caught the characteristic things at once: the free, strong walk, the calm carriage of the head,

"Yes, that color is good for you," she said approvingly. "The yellow one probably killed your hair? Yes; this

Thea glanced questioningly at Ottenburg. He smiled and bowed, seemed perfectly satisfied. He asked her to

stand in the elbow of the piano, in front of him, instead of behind him as she had been taught to do.

Thea sang an aria from `Gioconda,' some songs by Schu mann which she had studied with Harsanyi, and the

"That you must do again," he declared when they fin ished this song. "You did it much better the other day.

Thea laughed, glancing sidewise at Mrs. Nathanmeyer. "You want it roughhouse, do you? Bowers likes me

to sing it more seriously, but it always makes me think about a story my grandmother used to tell."

Fred pointed to the chair behind her. "Won't you rest a moment and tell us about it? I thought you had some

Thea sat down. "In Norway my grandmother knew a girl who was awfully in love with a young fellow. She

went into service on a big dairy farm to make enough money for her outfit. They were married at Christmas

time, and everybody was glad, because they'd been sigh ing around about each other for so long. That very

sum mer, the day before St. John's Day, her husband caught her carrying on with another farmhand. The

next night all the farm people had a bonfire and a big dance up on the mountain, and everybody was dancing

and singing. I guess they were all a little drunk, for they got to seeing how near they could make the girls

dance to the edge of the cliff. Olehe was the girl's husbandseemed the jolliest and the drunkest of

anybody. He danced his wife nearer and nearer the edge of the rock, and his wife began to scream so that the

others stopped dancing and the music stopped; but Ole went right on singing, and he danced her over the

edge of the cliff and they fell hundreds of feet and were all smashed to pieces."

Ottenburg turned back to the piano. "That's the idea! Now, come Miss Thea. Let it go!"

Thea took her place. She laughed and drew herself up out of her corsets, threw her shoulders high and let

them drop again. She had never sung in a low dress before, and she found it comfortable. Ottenburg jerked

his head and they began the song. The accompaniment sounded more than ever like the thumping and

When they stopped, they heard a sympathetic tapping at the end of the room. Old Mr. Nathanmeyer had come

to the door and was sitting back in the shadow, just inside the library, applauding with his cane. Thea threw

him a bright smile. He continued to sit there, his slippered foot on a low chair, his cane between his fingers,

and she glanced at him from time to time. The doorway made a frame for him, and he looked like a man in a

Mrs. Nathanmeyer summoned the maid again. "Selma will pack that gown in a box for you, and you can take

Thea turned to follow the maid, but hesitated. "Shall I wear gloves?" she asked, turning again to Mrs.

"No, I think not. Your arms are good, and you will feel freer without. You will need light slippers, pinkor

Thea went upstairs with the maid and Mrs. Nathan meyer rose, took Ottenburg's arm, and walked toward

her husband. "That's the first real voice I have heard in Chicago," she said decidedly. "I don't count that

Mr. Nathanmeyer shook his white head and smiled softly, as if he were thinking about something very agree

able. "SVENSK SOMMAR," he murmured. "She is like a Swedish summer. I spent nearly a year there when

When Ottenburg got Thea and her big box into the car riage, it occurred to him that she must be hungry,

after singing so much. When he asked her, she admitted that she was very hungry, indeed.

He took out his watch. "Would you mind stopping somewhere with me? It's only eleven."

"Mind? Of course, I wouldn't mind. I wasn't brought up like that. I can take care of myself."

Ottenburg laughed. "And I can take care of myself, so we can do lots of jolly things together." He opened the

carriage door and spoke to the driver. "I'm stuck on the way you sing that Grieg song," he declared.

When Thea got into bed that night she told herself that this was the happiest evening she had had in Chicago.

She had enjoyed the Nathanmeyers and their grand house, her new dress, and Ottenburg, her first real

carriage ride, and the good supper when she was so hungry. And Ottenburg WAS jolly! He made you want to

come back at him. You weren't always being caught up and mystified. When you started in with him, you

Philip Frederick Ottenburg was the third son of the great brewer. His mother was Katarina Furst, the daughter

and heiress of a brewing business older and richer than Otto Ottenburg's. As a young woman she had been a

con spicuous figure in GermanAmerican society in New York, and not untouched by scandal. She was a

handsome, head strong girl, a rebellious and violent force in a provincial society. She was brutally

sentimental and heavily ro mantic. Her free speech, her Continental ideas, and her proclivity for

championing new causes, even when she did not know much about them, made her an object of suspicion.

She was always going abroad to seek out in tellectual affinities, and was one of the group of young women

who followed Wagner about in his old age, keep ing at a respectful distance, but receiving now and then a

gracious acknowledgment that he appreciated their homage. When the composer died, Katarina, then a ma

After having been engaged to an American actor, a Welsh socialist agitator, and a German army officer,

Fraulein Furst at last placed herself and her great brewery interests into the trustworthy hands of Otto

Ottenburg, who had been her suitor ever since he was a clerk, learning his business in her father's office.

Her first two sons were exactly like their father. Even as children they were industrious, earnest little

tradesmen. As Frau Ottenburg said, "she had to wait for her Fred, but she got him at last," the first man who

had altogether pleased her. Frederick entered Harvard when he was eighteen. When his mother went to

Boston to visit him, she not only got him everything he wished for, but she made handsome and often

embarrassing presents to all his friends. She gave dinners and supper parties for the Glee Club, made the crew

break training, and was a gen erally disturbing influence. In his third year Fred left the university because of

a serious escapade which had some what hampered his life ever since. He went at once into his father's

Fred Ottenburg was now twentyeight, and people could only say of him that he had been less hurt by his

mother's indulgence than most boys would have been. He had never wanted anything that he could not have

it, and he might have had a great many things that he had never wanted. He was extravagant, but not prodigal.

He turned most of the money his mother gave him into the business, and lived on his generous salary.

Fred had never been bored for a whole day in his life. When he was in Chicago or St. Louis, he went to ball

games, prizefights, and horseraces. When he was in Germany, he went to concerts and to the opera. He

belonged to a long list of sportingclubs and hunting clubs, and was a good boxer. He had so many natural

interests that he had no affectations. At Harvard he kept away from the aesthetic circle that had already

discovered Francis Thompson. He liked no poetry but German poetry. Physical energy was the thing he was

full to the brim of, and music was one of its natural forms of expression. He had a healthy love of sport and

art, of eating and drink ing. When he was in Germany, he scarcely knew where the soup ended and the

MARCH began badly for Thea. She had a cold during the first week, and after she got through her church

duties on Sunday she had to go to bed with tonsilitis. She was still in the boardinghouse at which young

Ottenburg had called when he took her to see Mrs. Nathanmeyer. She had stayed on there because her room,

although it was inconvenient and very small, was at the corner of the house and got the sunlight.

Since she left Mrs. Lorch, this was the first place where she had got away from a north light. Her rooms had

all been as damp and mouldy as they were dark, with deep foundations of dirt under the carpets, and dirty

walls. In her present room there was no running water and no clothes closet, and she had to have the dresser

moved out to make room for her piano. But there were two windows, one on the south and one on the west, a

light wallpaper with morningglory vines, and on the floor a clean matting. The landlady had tried to make

the room look cheerful, because it was hard to let. It was so small that Thea could keep it clean herself, after

the Hun had done her worst. She hung her dresses on the door under a sheet, used the washstand for a dresser,

slept on a cot, and opened both the windows when she practiced. She felt less walled in than she had in the

Wednesday was her third day in bed. The medical stu dent who lived in the house had been in to see her,

had left some tablets and a foamy gargle, and told her that she could probably go back to work on Monday.

The land lady stuck her head in once a day, but Thea did not en courage her visits. The Hungarian

chambermaid brought her soup and toast. She made a sloppy pretense of put ting the room in order, but she

was such a dirty crea ture that Thea would not let her touch her cot; she got up every morning and turned the

mattress and made the bed herself. The exertion made her feel miserably ill, but at least she could lie still

contentedly for a long while afterward. She hated the poisoned feeling in her throat, and no matter how often

she gargled she felt unclean and disgusting. Still, if she had to be ill, she was almost glad that she had a

contagious illness. Otherwise she would have been at the mercy of the people in the house. She knew that

they disliked her, yet now that she was ill, they took it upon themselves to tap at her door, send her mes

sages, books, even a miserable flower or two. Thea knew that their sympathy was an expression of

selfrighteous ness, and she hated them for it. The divinity student, who was always whispering soft things

The medical student had been kind to her: he knew that she did not want to pay a doctor. His gargle had

helped her, and he gave her things to make her sleep at night. But he had been a cheat, too. He had exceeded

his rights. She had no soreness in her chest, and had told him so clearly. All this thumping of her back, and

listening to her breath ing, was done to satisfy personal curiosity. She had watched him with a

contemptuous smile. She was too sick to care; if it amused him She made him wash his hands before he

touched her; he was never very clean. All the same, it wounded her and made her feel that the world was a

pretty disgusting place. "The Kreutzer Sonata" did not make her feel any more cheerful. She threw it aside

with hatred. She could not believe it was written by the same man who wrote the novel that had thrilled her.

Her cot was beside the south window, and on Wednesday afternoon she lay thinking about the Harsanyis,

about old Mr. Nathanmeyer, and about how she was missing Fred Ottenburg's visits to the studio. That was

much the worst thing about being sick. If she were going to the studio every day, she might be having

pleasant encounters with Fred. He was always running away, Bowers said, and he might be planning to go

away as soon as Mrs. Nathan meyer's evenings were over. And here she was losing all this time!

After a while she heard the Hun's clumsy trot in the hall, and then a pound on the door. Mary came in,

making her usual uncouth sounds, carrying a long box and a big basket. Thea sat up in bed and tore off the

strings and paper. The basket was full of fruit, with a big Hawaiian pineapple in the middle, and in the box

there were layers of pink roses with long, woody stems and darkgreen leaves. They filled the room with a

cool smell that made another air to breathe. Mary stood with her apron full of paper and cardboard. When she

saw Thea take an envelope out from under the flowers, she uttered an exclamation, pointed to the roses, and

then to the bosom of her own dress, on the left side. Thea laughed and nodded. She understood that Mary as

sociated the color with Ottenburg's BOUTONNIERE. She pointed to the water pitcher,she had nothing

else big enough to hold the flowers,and made Mary put it on the window sill beside her.

After Mary was gone Thea locked the door. When the landlady knocked, she pretended that she was asleep.

She lay still all afternoon and with drowsy eyes watched the roses open. They were the first hothouse flowers

she had ever had. The cool fragrance they released was soothing, and as the pink petals curled back, they

were the only things between her and the gray sky. She lay on her side, putting the room and the

boardinghouse behind her. Fred knew where all the pleasant things in the world were, she re flected, and

knew the road to them. He had keys to all the nice places in his pocket, and seemed to jingle them from time

to time. And then, he was young; and her friends had always been old. Her mind went back over them. They

had all been teachers; wonderfully kind, but still teachers. Ray Kennedy, she knew, had wanted to marry her,

but he was the most protecting and teacherlike of them all. She moved impatiently in her cot and threw her

braids away from her hot neck, over her pillow. "I don't want him for a teacher," she thought, frowning

petulantly out of the window. "I've had such a string of them. I want him for a sweetheart."

"THEA," said Fred Ottenburg one drizzly afternoon in April, while they sat waiting for their tea at a restau

rant in the Pullman Building, overlooking the lake, "what are you going to do this summer?"

"With Bowers, you mean? Even Bowers goes fishing for a month. Chicago's no place to work, in the

Thea shrugged her shoulders. "No use having any plans when you haven't any money. They are

She shook her head. "No. It won't be comfortable there till I've got something to show for myself. I'm not

"You're stale; that's what's the matter with you. And just now you're dead tired. You'll talk more rationally

after you've had some tea. Rest your throat until it comes." They were sitting by a window. As Ottenburg

looked at her in the gray light, he remembered what Mrs. Nathanmeyer had said about the Swedish face

"breaking early." Thea was as gray as the weather. Her skin looked sick. Her hair, too, though on a damp day

Fred beckoned the waiter and increased his order for food. Thea did not hear him. She was staring out of the

window, down at the roof of the Art Institute and the green lions, dripping in the rain. The lake was all rolling

mist, with a soft shimmer of robin'segg blue in the gray. A lumber boat, with two very tall masts, was

emerging gaunt and black out of the fog. When the tea came Thea ate hungrily, and Fred watched her. He

thought her eyes became a little less bleak. The kettle sang cheerfully over the spirit lamp, and she seemed to

concentrate her attention upon that pleasant sound. She kept looking toward it listlessly and indulgently, in a

way that gave him a realization of her loneliness. Fred lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully. He and Thea

were alone in the quiet, dusky room full of white tables. In those days Chicago people never stopped for tea.

"Come," he said at last, "what would you do this summer, if you could do whatever you wished?"

"I'd go a long way from here! West, I think. Maybe I could get some of my spring back. All this cold, cloudy

weather,"she looked out at the lake and shivered, "I don't know, it does things to me," she ended

Fred nodded. "I know. You've been going down ever since you had tonsilitis. I've seen it. What you need is to

sit in the sun and bake for three months. You've got the right idea. I remember once when we were having

dinner somewhere you kept asking me about the CliffDweller ruins. Do they still interest you?"

"Of course they do. I've always wanted to go down therelong before I ever got in for this."

"I don't think I told you, but my father owns a whole canyon full of CliffDweller ruins. He has a big

worthless ranch down in Arizona, near a Navajo reservation, and there's a canyon on the place they call

Panther Canyon, chock full of that sort of thing. I often go down there to hunt. Henry Biltmer and his wife

live there and keep a tidy place. He's an old German who worked in the brewery until he lost his health. Now

he runs a few cattle. Henry likes to do me a favor. I've done a few for him." Fred drowned his cigarette in his

saucer and studied Thea's expression, which was wistful and intent, envious and ad miring. He continued

with satisfaction: "If you went down there and stayed with them for two or three months, they wouldn't let

you pay anything. I might send Henry a new gun, but even I couldn't offer him money for putting up a friend

of mine. I'll get you transportation. It would make a new girl of you. Let me write to Henry, and you pack

your trunk. That's all that's necessary. No red tape about it. What do you say, Thea?"

"That's the trouble; it's TOO easy. Doesn't sound prob able. I'm not used to getting things for nothing."

Ottenburg laughed. "Oh, if that's all, I'll show you how to begin. You won't get this for nothing, quite. I'll ask

you to let me stop off and see you on my way to California. Perhaps by that time you will be glad to see me.

Better let me break the news to Bowers. I can manage him. He needs a little transportation himself now and

then. You must get corduroy ridingthings and leather leggings. There are a few snakes about. Why do you

"Well, I don't exactly see why you take the trouble. What do you get out of it? You haven't liked me so well

Fred dropped his third cigarette and looked at his watch. "If you don't see that, it's because you need a tonic.

I'll show you what I'll get out of it. Now I'm going to get a cab and take you home. You are too tired to walk a

step. You'd better get to bed as soon as you get there. Of course, I don't like you so well when you're half

Thea rose. "I don't know. Being bored eats the heart out of me, I guess." She walked meekly in front of him

to the elevator. Fred noticed for the hundredth time how vehemently her body proclaimed her state of feeling.

He remembered how remarkably brilliant and beautiful she had been when she sang at Mrs. Nathanmeyer's:

flushed and gleaming, round and supple, something that couldn't be dimmed or downed. And now she

seemed a moving figure of discouragement. The very waiters glanced at her apprehensively. It was not that

she made a fuss, but her back was most extraordinarily vocal. One never needed to see her face to know what

she was full of that day. Yet she was certainly not mercurial. Her flesh seemed to take a mood and to "set,"

like plaster. As he put her into the cab, Fred reflected once more that he "gave her up." He would attack her

THE San Francisco Mountain lies in Northern Arizona, above Flagstaff, and its blue slopes and snowy

summit entice the eye for a hundred miles across the desert. About its base lie the pine forests of the Navajos,

where the great redtrunked trees live out their peaceful centuries in that sparkling air. The PINONS and

scrub begin only where the forest ends, where the country breaks into open, stony clearings and the surface of

the earth cracks into deep can yons. The great pines stand at a considerable distance from each other. Each

tree grows alone, murmurs alone, thinks alone. They do not intrude upon each other. The Navajos are not

much in the habit of giving or of asking help. Their language is not a communicative one, and they never

attempt an interchange of personality in speech. Over their forests there is the same inexorable reserve. Each

That was the first thing Thea Kronborg felt about the forest, as she drove through it one May morning in

Henry Biltmer's democrat wagonand it was the first great forest she had ever seen. She had got off the train

at Flag staff that morning, rolled off into the high, chill air when all the pines on the mountain were fired by

Old Biltmer followed a faint wagon trail which ran south east, and which, as they traveled, continually

dipped lower, falling away from the high plateau on the slope of which Flagstaff sits. The white peak of the

mountain, the snow gorges above the timber, now disappeared from time to time as the road dropped and

dropped, and the forest closed behind the wagon. More than the mountain disappeared as the forest closed

thus. Thea seemed to be taking very little through the wood with her. The personality of which she was so

tired seemed to let go of her. The high, spark ling air drank it up like blottingpaper. It was lost in the

thrilling blue of the new sky and the song of the thin wind in the PINONS. The old, fretted lines which

marked one off, which defined her,made her Thea Kronborg, Bowers's accompanist, a soprano with a

So far she had failed. Her two years in Chicago had not resulted in anything. She had failed with Harsanyi,

and she had made no great progress with her voice. She had come to believe that whatever Bowers had taught

her was of secondary importance, and that in the essential things she had made no advance. Her student life

closed behind her, like the forest, and she doubted whether she could go back to it if she tried. Probably she

would teach music in little country towns all her life. Failure was not so tragic as she would have supposed;

She was getting back to the earliest sources of gladness that she could remember. She had loved the sun, and

the brilliant solitudes of sand and sun, long before these other things had come along to fasten themselves

upon her and torment her. That night, when she clambered into her big German feather bed, she felt

completely released from the enslaving desire to get on in the world. Darkness had once again the sweet

THEA'S life at the Ottenburg ranch was simple and full of light, like the days themselves. She awoke every

morning when the first fierce shafts of sunlight darted through the curtainless windows of her room at the

ranch house. After breakfast she took her lunchbasket and went down to the canyon. Usually she did not

Panther Canyon was like a thousand othersone of those abrupt fissures with which the earth in the

Southwest is riddled; so abrupt that you might walk over the edge of any one of them on a dark night and

never know what had happened to you. This canyon headed on the Ottenburg ranch, about a mile from the

ranch house, and it was acces sible only at its head. The canyon walls, for the first two hundred feet below

the surface, were perpendicular cliffs, striped with evenrunning strata of rock. From there on to the bottom

the sides were less abrupt, were shelving, and lightly fringed with PINONS and dwarf cedars. The effect was

that of a gentler canyon within a wilder one. The dead city lay at the point where the perpendicular outer wall

ceased and the Vshaped inner gorge began. There a stratum of rock, softer than those above, had been

hollowed out by the action of time until it was like a deep groove running along the sides of the canyon. In

this hollow (like a great fold in the rock) the Ancient People had built their houses of yellowish stone and

mor tar. The overhanging cliff above made a roof two hun dred feet thick. The hard stratum below was

an ever lasting floor. The houses stood along in a row, like the buildings in a city block, or like a barracks.

In both walls of the canyon the same streak of soft rock had been washed out, and the long horizontal groove

had been built up with houses. The dead city had thus two streets, one set in either cliff, facing each other

The canyon twisted and wound like a snake, and these two streets went on for four miles or more, interrupted

by the abrupt turnings of the gorge, but beginning again within each turn. The canyon had a dozen of these

false endings near its head. Beyond, the windings were larger and less perceptible, and it went on for a

hundred miles, too narrow, precipitous, and terrible for man to follow it. The Cliff Dwellers liked wide

canyons, where the great cliffs caught the sun. Panther Canyon had been deserted for hundreds of years when

the first Spanish missionaries came into Arizona, but the masonry of the houses was still wonderfully firm;

All the houses in the canyon were clean with the clean ness of sunbaked, windswept places, and they all

smelled of the tough little cedars that twisted themselves into the very doorways. One of these rockrooms

Thea took for her own. Fred had told her how to make it comfortable. The day after she came old Henry

brought over on one of the packponies a roll of Navajo blankets that belonged to Fred, and Thea lined her

cave with them. The room was not more than eight by ten feet, and she could touch the stone roof with her

fingertips. This was her old idea: a nest in a high cliff, full of sun. All morning long the sun beat upon her

cliff, while the ruins on the opposite side of the canyon were in shadow. In the afternoon, when she had the

shade of two hundred feet of rock wall, the ruins on the other side of the gulf stood out in the blazing sun

light. Before her door ran the narrow, winding path that had been the street of the Ancient People. The yucca

and niggerhead cactus grew everywhere. From her doorstep she looked out on the ochercolored slope that

ran down several hundred feet to the stream, and this hot rock was sparsely grown with dwarf trees. Their

colors were so pale that the shadows of the little trees on the rock stood out sharper than the trees themselves.

When Thea first came, the chokecherry bushes were in blossom, and the scent of them was almost

sickeningly sweet after a shower. At the very bottom of the canyon, along the stream, there was a thread of

bright, flickering, goldengreen,cottonwood seedlings. They made a living, chattering screen behind

Thea went down to the stream by the Indian water trail. She had found a bathingpool with a sand bottom,

where the creek was damned by fallen trees. The climb back was long and steep, and when she reached her

little house in the cliff she always felt fresh delight in its com fort and inaccessibility. By the time she got

there, the woolly redandgray blankets were saturated with sun light, and she sometimes fell asleep as

soon as she stretched her body on their warm surfaces. She used to wonder at her own inactivity. She could

lie there hour after hour in the sun and listen to the strident whir of the big locusts, and to the light, ironical

laughter of the quaking asps. All her life she had been hurrying and sputtering, as if she had been born behind

time and had been trying to catch up. Now, she reflected, as she drew herself out long upon the rugs, it was as

if she were waiting for something to catch up with her. She had got to a place where she was out of the

Here she could lie for half a day undistracted, holding pleasant and incomplete conceptions in her

mindalmost in her hands. They were scarcely clear enough to be called ideas. They had something to do

with fragrance and color and sound, but almost nothing to do with words. She was singing very little now, but

a song would go through her head all morning, as a spring keeps welling up, and it was like a pleasant

sensation indefinitely prolonged. It was much more like a sensation than like an idea, or an act of

remembering. Music had never come to her in that sensu ous form before. It had always been a thing to be

struggled with, had always brought anxiety and exaltation and cha grinnever content and indolence. Thea

began to won der whether people could not utterly lose the power to work, as they can lose their voice or

their memory. She had always been a little drudge, hurrying from one task to anotheras if it mattered! And

now her power to think seemed converted into a power of sustained sensation. She could become a mere

receptacle for heat, or become a color, like the bright lizards that darted about on the hot stones outside her

THE faculty of observation was never highly developed in Thea Kronborg. A great deal escaped her eye as

she passed through the world. But the things which were for her, she saw; she experienced them physically

and re membered them as if they had once been a part of herself. The roses she used to see in the florists'

shops in Chicago were merely roses. But when she thought of the moon flowers that grew over Mrs.

Tellamantez's door, it was as if she had been that vine and had opened up in white flow ers every night.

There were memories of light on the sand hills, of masses of pricklypear blossoms she had found in the

desert in early childhood, of the late afternoon sun pour ing through the grape leaves and the mint bed in

Mrs. Kohler's garden, which she would never lose. These recol lections were a part of her mind and

personality. In Chicago she had got almost nothing that went into her subconscious self and took root there.

But here, in Panther Canyon, there were again things which seemed destined for her.

Panther Canyon was the home of innumerable swallows. They built nests in the wall far above the hollow

groove in which Thea's own rock chamber lay. They seldom ven tured above the rim of the canyon, to the

flat, windswept tableland. Their world was the blue airriver between the canyon walls. In that blue gulf the

arrowshaped birds swam all day long, with only an occasional movement of the wings. The only sad thing

about them was their tim idity; the way in which they lived their lives between the echoing cliffs and never

dared to rise out of the shadow of the canyon walls. As they swam past her door, Thea often felt how easy it

From the ancient dwelling there came always a dignified, unobtrusive sadness; now stronger, now

fainter,like the aromatic smell which the dwarf cedars gave out in the sun,but always present, a part of

the air one breathed. At night, when Thea dreamed about the canyon,or in the early morning when she

hurried toward it, anticipating it,her conception of it was of yellow rocks baking in sunlight, the swallows,

the cedar smell, and that peculiar sadnessa voice out of the past, not very loud, that went on saying a few

Standing up in her lodge, Thea could with her thumb nail dislodge flakes of carbon from the rock roofthe

cookingsmoke of the Ancient People. They were that near! A timid, nestbuilding folk, like the swallows.

How often Thea remembered Ray Kennedy's moralizing about the cliff cities. He used to say that he never

felt the hard ness of the human struggle or the sadness of history as he felt it among those ruins. He used to

say, too, that it made one feel an obligation to do one's best. On the first day that Thea climbed the water trail

she began to have intui tions about the women who had worn the path, and who had spent so great a part of

their lives going up and down it. She found herself trying to walk as they must have walked, with a feeling in

her feet and knees and loins which she had never known before,which must have come up to her out of the

accustomed dust of that rocky trail. She could feel the weight of an Indian baby hanging to her back as she

The empty houses, among which she wandered in the afternoon, the blanketed one in which she lay all

morning, were haunted by certain fears and desires; feelings about warmth and cold and water and physical

strength. It seemed to Thea that a certain understanding of those old people came up to her out of the rock

shelf on which she lay; that certain feelings were transmitted to her, suggestions that were simple, insistent,

and monotonous, like the beating of Indian drums. They were not expressi ble in words, but seemed rather

to translate themselves into attitudes of body, into degrees of muscular tension or relaxation; the naked

strength of youth, sharp as the sun shafts; the crouching timorousness of age, the sullenness of women who

waited for their captors. At the first turning of the canyon there was a halfruined tower of yellow masonry, a

watchtower upon which the young men used to entice eagles and snare them with nets. Sometimes for a

whole morning Thea could see the coppery breast and shoulders of an Indian youth there against the sky; see

Old Henry Biltmer, at the ranch, had been a great deal among the Pueblo Indians who are the descendants of

the CliffDwellers. After supper he used to sit and smoke his pipe by the kitchen stove and talk to Thea about

them. He had never found any one before who was interested in his ruins. Every Sunday the old man prowled

about in the canyon, and he had come to know a good deal more about it than he could account for. He had

gathered up a whole chestful of CliffDweller relics which he meant to take back to Germany with him some

day. He taught Thea how to find things among the ruins: grindingstones, and drills and needles made of

turkeybones. There were frag ments of pottery everywhere. Old Henry explained to her that the Ancient

People had developed masonry and pot tery far beyond any other crafts. After they had made houses for

themselves, the next thing was to house the precious water. He explained to her how all their customs and

ceremonies and their religion went back to water. The men provided the food, but water was the care of the

wo men. The stupid women carried water for most of their lives; the cleverer ones made the vessels to hold

it. Their pottery was their most direct appeal to water, the envelope and sheath of the precious element itself.

The strongest Indian need was expressed in those graceful jars, fashioned slowly by hand, without the aid of a

When Thea took her bath at the bottom of the canyon, in the sunny pool behind the screen of cottonwoods,

she sometimes felt as if the water must have sovereign quali ties, from having been the object of so much

service and desire. That stream was the only living thing left of the drama that had been played out in the

canyon centuries ago. In the rapid, restless heart of it, flowing swifter than the rest, there was a continuity of

life that reached back into the old time. The glittering thread of current had a kind of lightly worn, loosely

knit personality, graceful and laughing. Thea's bath came to have a ceremonial gravity. The atmosphere of the

One morning, as she was standing upright in the pool, splashing water between her shoulderblades with a

big sponge, something flashed through her mind that made her draw herself up and stand still until the water

had quite dried upon her flushed skin. The stream and the broken pottery: what was any art but an effort to

make a sheath, a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining, elusive element which is life

itself,life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose? The Indian women had

held it in their jars. In the sculpture she had seen in the Art Institute, it had been caught in a flash of arrested

motion. In singing, one made a vessel of one's throat and nostrils and held it on one's breath, caught the

THEA had a superstitious feeling about the potsherds, and liked better to leave them in the dwellings where

she found them. If she took a few bits back to her own lodge and hid them under the blankets, she did it

guiltily, as if she were being watched. She was a guest in these houses, and ought to behave as such. Nearly

every afternoon she went to the chambers which contained the most interesting fragments of pottery, sat and

looked at them for a while. Some of them were beautifully deco rated. This care, expended upon vessels that

could not hold food or water any better for the additional labor put upon them, made her heart go out to those

ancient potters. They had not only expressed their desire, but they had expressed it as beautifully as they

could. Food, fire, water, and something elseeven here, in this crack in the world, so far back in the night of

the past! Down here at the beginning that painful thing was already stirring; the seed of sorrow, and of so

There were jars done in a delicate overlay, like pine cones; and there were many patterns in a low relief, like

basketwork. Some of the pottery was decorated in color, red and brown, black and white, in graceful geo

metrical patterns. One day, on a fragment of a shallow bowl, she found a crested serpent's head, painted in

red on terracotta. Again she found half a bowl with a broad band of white cliffhouses painted on a black

ground. They were scarcely conventionalized at all; there they were in the black border, just as they stood in

the rock before her. It brought her centuries nearer to these peo ple to find that they saw their houses exactly

Yes, Ray Kennedy was right. All these things made one feel that one ought to do one's best, and help to fulfill

some desire of the dust that slept there. A dream had been dreamed there long ago, in the night of ages, and

the wind had whispered some promise to the sadness of the savage. In their own way, those people had felt

the beginnings of what was to come. These potsherds were like fetters that bound one to a long chain of

Not only did the world seem older and richer to Thea now, but she herself seemed older. She had never been

alone for so long before, or thought so much. Nothing had ever engrossed her so deeply as the daily

contemplation of that line of paleyellow houses tucked into the wrinkle of the cliff. Moonstone and Chicago

had become vague. Here everything was simple and definite, as things had been in childhood. Her mind was

like a ragbag into which she had been frantically thrusting whatever she could grab. And here she must throw

this lumber away. The things that were really hers separated themselves from the rest. Her ideas were

When Thea had been at the Ottenburg ranch for two months, she got a letter from Fred announcing that he

"might be along at almost any time now." The letter came at night, and the next morning she took it down

into the canyon with her. She was delighted that he was coming soon. She had never felt so grateful to any

one, and she wanted to tell him everything that had happened to her since she had been theremore than had

happened in all her life before. Certainly she liked Fred better than any one else in the world. There was

Harsanyi, of coursebut Harsanyi was always tired. Just now, and here, she wanted some one who had

She was ashamed to think what an apprehensive drudge she must always have seemed to Fred, and she

wondered why he had concerned himself about her at all. Perhaps she would never be so happy or so

goodlooking again, and she would like Fred to see her, for once, at her best. She had not been singing much,

but she knew that her voice was more interesting than it had ever been before. She had begun to understand

thatwith her, at least voice was, first of all, vitality; a lightness in the body and a driving power in the

blood. If she had that, she could sing. When she felt so keenly alive, lying on that insensi ble shelf of stone,

when her body bounded like a rubber ball away from its hardness, then she could sing. This, too, she could

Another week passed. Thea did the same things as before, felt the same influences, went over the same ideas;

but there was a livelier movement in her thoughts, and a freshening of sensation, like the brightness which

came over the underbrush after a shower. A persistent affirmation or denialwas going on in her, like the

tapping of the woodpecker in the one tall pine tree across the chasm. Musical phrases drove each other

rapidly through her mind, and the song of the cicada was now too long and too sharp. Everything seemed

It was while she was in this abstracted state, waiting for the clock to strike, that Thea at last made up her

mind what she was going to try to do in the world, and that she was going to Germany to study without

further loss of time. Only by the merest chance had she ever got to Panther Canyon. There was certainly no

kindly Providence that directed one's life; and one's parents did not in the least care what became of one, so

long as one did not misbehave and endanger their comfort. One's life was at the mercy of blind chance. She

had better take it in her own hands and lose everything than meekly draw the plough under the rod of parental

guidance. She had seen it when she was at home last summer,the hostility of comfortable, self satisfied

people toward any serious effort. Even to her father it seemed indecorous. Whenever she spoke seriously, he

looked apologetic. Yet she had clung fast to whatever was left of Moonstone in her mind. No more of that!

The CliffDwellers had lengthened her past. She had older and higher obligations.

ONE Sunday afternoon late in July old Henry Biltmer was rheumatically descending into the head of the

canyon. The Sunday before had been one of those cloudy daysfortunately rarewhen the life goes out of

that country and it becomes a gray ghost, an empty, shivering uncertainty. Henry had spent the day in the

barn; his canyon was a reality only when it was flooded with the light of its great lamp, when the yellow

rocks cast purple shad ows, and the resin was fairly cooking in the corkscrew cedars. The yuccas were in

blossom now. Out of each clump of sharp bayonet leaves rose a tall stalk hung with greenishwhite bells

with thick, fleshy petals. The nigger head cactus was thrusting its crimson blooms up out of every crevice in

Henry had come out on the pretext of hunting a spade and pickaxe that young Ottenburg had borrowed, but

he was keeping his eyes open. He was really very curious about the new occupants of the canyon, and what

they found to do there all day long. He let his eye travel along the gulf for a mile or so to the first turning,

where the fis sure zigzagged out and then receded behind a stone prom ontory on which stood the

From the base of this tower, which now threw its shadow forward, bits of rock kept flying out into the open

gulfskating upon the air until they lost their momen tum, then falling like chips until they rang upon the

ledges at the bottom of the gorge or splashed into the stream. Biltmer shaded his eyes with his hand. There on

the prom ontory, against the creamcolored cliff, were two figures nimbly moving in the light, both slender

and agile, entirely absorbed in their game. They looked like two boys. Both were hatless and both wore white

Henry forgot his pickaxe and followed the trail before the cliffhouses toward the tower. Behind the tower,

as he well knew, were heaps of stones, large and small, piled against the face of the cliff. He had always

believed that the Indian watchmen piled them there for ammunition. Thea and Fred had come upon these

missiles and were throwing them for distance. As Biltmer approached he could hear them laughing, and he

caught Thea's voice, high and excited, with a ring of vexation in it. Fred was teaching her to throw a heavy

stone like a discus. When it was Fred's turn, he sent a triangularshaped stone out into the air with

considerable skill. Thea watched it en viously, standing in a halfdefiant posture, her sleeves rolled above

her elbows and her face flushed with heat and excitement. After Fred's third missile had rung upon the rocks

below, she snatched up a stone and stepped im patiently out on the ledge in front of him. He caught her by

"Well, I know how. That makes a difference." He drew a mark in the dust with his toe. "There, that's right.

Don't step over that. Pivot yourself on your spine, and make a half turn. When you've swung your length, let

Thea settled the flat piece of rock between her wrist and fingers, faced the cliff wall, stretched her arm in

position, whirled round on her left foot to the full stretch of her body, and let the missile spin out over the

gulf. She hung expectantly in the air, forgetting to draw back her arm, her eyes following the stone as if it

carried her fortunes with it. Her comrade watched her; there weren't many girls who could show a line like

that from the toe to the thigh, from the shoulder to the tip of the outstretched hand. The stone spent itself and

"There it goes again! Not nearly so far as yours. What IS the matter with me? Give me another." She faced

Ottenburg laughed. "Why do you keep on working AFTER you've thrown it? You can't help it along then."

Without replying, Thea stooped and selected another stone, took a deep breath and made another turn. Fred

watched the disk, exclaiming, "Good girl! You got past the pine that time. That's a good throw."

She took out her handkerchief and wiped her glowing face and throat, pausing to feel her right shoulder with

"Ahha, you've made yourself sore, haven't you? What did I tell you? You go at things too hard. I'll tell you

what I'm going to do, Thea," Fred dusted his hands and began tucking in the blouse of his shirt, "I'm going to

make some singlesticks and teach you to fence. You'd be all right there. You're light and quick and you've

got lots of drive in you. I'd like to have you come at me with foils; you'd look so fierce," he chuckled.

She turned away from him and stubbornly sent out another stone, hanging in the air after its flight. Her fury

amused Fred, who took all games lightly and played them well. She was breathing hard, and little beads of

moisture had gathered on her upper lip. He slipped his arm about her. "If you will look as pretty as that" he

bent his head and kissed her. Thea was startled, gave him an angry push, drove at him with her free hand in a

manner quite hostile. Fred was on his mettle in an instant. He pinned both her arms down and kissed her

When he released her, she turned away and spoke over her shoulder. "That was mean of you, but I suppose I

"I should say you did deserve it," Fred panted, "turning savage on me like that! I should say you did deserve

He saw her shoulders harden. "Well, I just said I de served it, didn't I? What more do you want?"

"I want you to tell me why you flew at me like that! You weren't playing; you looked as if you'd like to

She brushed back her hair impatiently. "I didn't mean anything, really. You interrupted me when I was

watching the stone. I can't jump from one thing to another. I pushed you without thinking."

Fred thought her back expressed contrition. He went up to her, stood behind her with his chin above her

shoul der, and said something in her ear. Thea laughed and turned toward him. They left the stonepile

carelessly, as if they had never been interested in it, rounded the yellow tower, and disappeared into the

second turn of the canyon, where the dead city, interrupted by the jutting promon tory, began again.

Old Biltmer had been somewhat embarrassed by the turn the game had taken. He had not heard their conver

sation, but the pantomime against the rocks was clear enough. When the two young people disappeared, their

"I guess that young lady can take care of herself," he chuckled. "Young Fred, though, he has quite a way with

DAY was breaking over Panther Canyon. The gulf was cold and full of heavy, purplish twilight. The wood

smoke which drifted from one of the cliffhouses hung in a blue scarf across the chasm, until the draft caught

it and whirled it away. Thea was crouching in the doorway of her rock house, while Ottenburg looked after

the crackling fire in the next cave. He was waiting for it to burn down to coals before he put the coffee on to

They had left the ranch house that morning a little after three o'clock, having packed their camp equipment

the day before, and had crossed the open pasture land with their lantern while the stars were still bright.

During the descent into the canyon by lanternlight, they were chilled through their coats and sweaters. The

lantern crept slowly along the rock trail, where the heavy air seemed to offer resistance. The voice of the

stream at the bottom of the gorge was hollow and threatening, much louder and deeper than it ever was by

dayanother voice altogether. The sullenness of the place seemed to say that the world could get on very

well without people, red or white; that under the human world there was a geological world, conducting its

silent, immense operations which were indifferent to man. Thea had often seen the desert sunrise,a light

hearted affair, where the sun springs out of bed and the world is golden in an instant. But this canyon seemed

to waken like an old man, with rheum and stiffness of the joints, with heaviness, and a dull, malignant mind.

She crouched against the wall while the stars faded, and thought what courage the early races must have had

At last a kind of hopefulness broke in the air. In a mo ment the pine trees up on the edge of the rim were

flashing with coppery fire. The thin red clouds which hung above their pointed tops began to boil and move

rapidly, weaving in and out like smoke. The swallows darted out of their rock houses as at a signal, and flew

upward, toward the rim. Little brown birds began to chirp in the bushes along the watercourse down at the

bottom of the ravine, where everything was still dusky and pale. At first the golden light seemed to hang like

a wave upon the rim of the can yon; the trees and bushes up there, which one scarcely noticed at noon, stood

out magnified by the slanting rays. Long, thin streaks of light began to reach quiveringly down into the

canyon. The red sun rose rapidly above the tops of the blazing pines, and its glow burst into the gulf, about

the very doorstep on which Thea sat. It bored into the wet, dark underbrush. The dripping cherry bushes, the

pale aspens, and the frosty PINONS were glittering and trembling, swimming in the liquid gold. All the pale,

dusty little herbs of the bean family, never seen by any one but a botanist, became for a moment individual

and import ant, their silky leaves quite beautiful with dew and light. The arch of sky overhead, heavy as lead

a little while be fore, lifted, became more and more transparent, and one could look up into depths of pearly

The savor of coffee and bacon mingled with the smell of wet cedars drying, and Fred called to Thea that he

was ready for her. They sat down in the doorway of his kitchen, with the warmth of the live coals behind

them and the sunlight on their faces, and began their breakfast, Mrs. Biltmer's thick coffee cups and the

cream bottle between them, the coffeepot and fryingpan conveniently keeping hot among the embers.

"I thought you were going back on the whole proposi tion, Thea, when you were crawling along with that

"I know. I was cold and hungry, and I didn't believe there was going to be any morning, anyway. Didn't you

Fred squinted above his smoking cup. "Well, I am never strong for getting up before the sun. The world looks

unfurnished. When I first lit the fire and had a square look at you, I thought I'd got the wrong girl. Pale,

Thea leaned back into the shadow of the rock room and warmed her hands over the coals. "It was dismal

enough. How warm these walls are, all the way round; and your breakfast is so good. I'm all right now, Fred."

"Yes, you're all right now." Fred lit a cigarette and looked at her critically as her head emerged into the sun

again. "You get up every morning just a little bit hand somer than you were the day before. I'd love you just

as much if you were not turning into one of the loveliest wo men I've ever seen; but you are, and that's a fact

to be reckoned with." He watched her across the thin line of smoke he blew from his lips. "What are you

She turned away to the fire again. "I don't know what you're talking about," she muttered with an

Ottenburg laughed softly. "Oh, yes, you do! Nobody better! You're a close one, but you give yourself away

sometimes, like everybody else. Do you know, I've de cided that you never do a single thing without an

ulterior motive." He threw away his cigarette, took out his tobaccopouch and began to fill his pipe. "You

ride and fence and walk and climb, but I know that all the while you're getting somewhere in your mind. All

these things are instruments; and I, too, am an instrument." He looked up in time to intercept a quick, startled

glance from Thea. "Oh, I don't mind," he chuckled; "not a bit. Every woman, every interesting woman, has

ulterior motives, many of 'em less creditable than yours. It's your constancy that amuses me. You must have

Thea looked slowly up at her companion's goodhumored face. His eyes, sometimes too restless and

sympathetic in town, had grown steadier and clearer in the open air. His short curly beard and yellow hair had

reddened in the sun and wind. The pleasant vigor of his person was always delightful to her, something to

signal to and laugh with in a world of negative people. With Fred she was never be calmed. There was

always life in the air, always something coming and going, a rhythm of feeling and action, stronger than

the natural accord of youth. As she looked at him, leaning against the sunny wall, she felt a desire to be frank

with him. She was not willfully holding anything back. But, on the other hand, she could not force things that

held themselves back. "Yes, it was like that when I was little," she said at last. "I had to be close, as you call

it, or go under. But I didn't know I had been like that since you came. I've had nothing to be close about. I

haven't thought about anything but having a good time with you. I've just drifted."

Fred blew a trail of smoke out into the breeze and looked knowing. "Yes, you drift like a rifle ball, my dear.

It's youryour direction that I like best of all. Most fellows wouldn't, you know. I'm unusual."

They both laughed, but Thea frowned questioningly. "Why wouldn't most fellows? Other fellows have liked

"Yes, serious fellows. You told me yourself they were all old, or solemn. But jolly fellows want to be the

whole target. They would say you were all brain and muscle; that you have no feeling."

"Of course they would," Fred continued blandly. "Jolly fellows have no imagination. They want to be the

animat ing force. When they are not around, they want a girl to beextinct," he waved his hand. "Old

fellows like Mr. Nathanmeyer understand your kind; but among the young ones, you are rather lucky to have

found me. Even I wasn't always so wise. I've had my time of thinking it would not bore me to be the Apollo

of a homey flat, and I've paid out a trifle to learn better. All those things get very tedious unless they are

hooked up with an idea of some sort. It's because we DON'T come out here only to look at each other and

drink coffee that it's so pleasant to look at each other." Fred drew on his pipe for a while, studying Thea's

abstraction. She was staring up at the far wall of the canyon with a troubled expression that drew her eyes

narrow and her mouth hard. Her hands lay in her lap, one over the other, the fingers interlacing. "Suppose,"

Fred came out at length,"suppose I were to offer you what most of the young men I know would offer a

girl they'd been sitting up nights about: a comfortable flat in Chicago, a summer camp up in the woods,

Thea sat up straight and stared at him in alarm, glared into his eyes. "Perfectly hideous!" she exclaimed.

Fred dropped back against the old stonework and laughed deep in his chest. "Well, don't be frightened. I

won't offer them. You're not a nestbuilding bird. You know I always liked your song, `Me for the jolt of the

She rose impatiently and walked to the edge of the cliff. "It's not that so much. It's waking up every morning

with the feeling that your life is your own, and your strength is your own, and your talent is your own; that

you're all there, and there's no sag in you." She stood for a moment as if she were tortured by uncertainty,

then turned suddenly back to him. "Don't talk about these things any more now," she entreated. "It isn't that I

want to keep anything from you. The trouble is that I've got nothing to keepexcept (you know as well as I)

that feeling. I told you about it in Chicago once. But it always makes me unhappy to talk about it. It will spoil

the day. Will you go for a climb with me?" She held out her hands with a smile so eager that it made

He sprang up and caught the hands she put out so cor dially, and stood swinging them back and forth. "I

won't tease you. A word's enough to me. But I love it, all the same. Understand?" He pressed her hands and

"I want you to drag me. Over there, to the other houses. They are more interesting than these." She pointed

across the gorge to the row of white houses in the other cliff. "The trail is broken away, but I got up there

once. It's possible. You have to go to the bottom of the canyon, cross the creek, and then go up

Ottenburg, lounging against the sunny wall, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, looked across at the distant

dwell ings. "It's an awful climb," he sighed, "when I could be perfectly happy here with my pipe.

However" He took up his stick and hat and followed Thea down the water trail. "Do you climb this path

every day? You surely earn your bath. I went down and had a look at your pool the other afternoon. Neat

"Yes, and so do you, evidently. I'm becoming expert at reading your meaning in your back. I'm behind you so

"I wouldn't, anywhere, if I were you. They will make you less elastic. The side muscles get flabby. If you go

in for opera, there's a fortune in a flexible body. Most of the German singers are clumsy, even when they're

Thea switched a PINON branch back at him. "Oh, I'll never get fat! That I can promise you."

Fred smiled, looking after her. "Keep that promise, no matter how many others you break," he drawled.

The upward climb, after they had crossed the stream, was at first a breathless scramble through underbrush.

When they reached the big boulders, Ottenburg went first because he had the longer legreach, and gave

Thea a hand when the step was quite beyond her, swinging her up until she could get a foothold. At last they

reached a little plat form among the rocks, with only a hundred feet of jagged, sloping wall between them

Ottenburg lay down under a pine tree and declared that he was going to have a pipe before he went any

"I'm not going to stop now until I get there," Thea in sisted. "I'll go on alone."

Fred settled his shoulder against the treetrunk. "Go on if you like, but I'm here to enjoy myself. If you meet

Thea turned away resolutely and began to go up the wall, using an irregular cleft in the rock for a path. The

cliff, which looked almost perpendicular from the bottom, was really made up of ledges and boulders, and

behind these she soon disappeared. For a long while Fred smoked with halfclosed eyes, smiling to himself

now and again. Occasionally he lifted an eyebrow as he heard the rattle of small stones among the rocks

above. "In a temper," he concluded; "do her good." Then he subsided into warm drowsiness and listened to

the locusts in the yuccas, and the taptap of the old woodpecker that was never weary of assaulting the big

Fred had finished his pipe and was wondering whether he wanted another, when he heard a call from the cliff

far above him. Looking up, he saw Thea standing on the edge of a projecting crag. She waved to him and

As he saw her there between the sky and the gulf, with that great wash of air and the morning light about her,

Fred recalled the brilliant figure at Mrs. Nathanmeyer's. Thea was one of those people who emerge,

unexpectedly, larger than we are accustomed to see them. Even at this distance one got the impression of

muscular energy and audacity,a kind of brilliancy of motion,of a person ality that carried across big

spaces and expanded among big things. Lying still, with his hands under his head, Ottenburg rhetorically

addressed the figure in the air. "You are the sort that used to run wild in Germany, dressed in their hair and a

piece of skin. Soldiers caught 'em in nets. Old Nathanmeyer," he mused, "would like a peep at her now.

Knowing old fellow. Always buying those Zorn etchings of peasant girls bathing. No sag in them either.

Must be the cold climate." He sat up. "She'll begin to pitch rocks on me if I don't move." In response to

another impatient gesture from the crag, he rose and began swinging slowly up the trail.

It was the afternoon of that long day. Thea was lying on a blanket in the door of her rock house. She and

Otten burg had come back from their climb and had lunch, and he had gone off for a nap in one of the

cliffhouses farther down the path. He was sleeping peacefully, his coat under his head and his face turned

Thea, too, was drowsy, and lay looking through half closed eyes up at the blazing blue arch over the rim of

the canyon. She was thinking of nothing at all. Her mind, like her body, was full of warmth, lassitude,

physical content. Suddenly an eagle, tawny and of great size, sailed over the cleft in which she lay, across the

arch of sky. He dropped for a moment into the gulf between the walls, then wheeled, and mounted until his

plumage was so steeped in light that he looked like a golden bird. He swept on, following the course of the

canyon a little way and then disappearing beyond the rim. Thea sprang to her feet as if she had been thrown

up from the rock by volcanic action. She stood rigid on the edge of the stone shelf, straining her eyes after

that strong, tawny flight. O eagle of eagles! Endeavor, achievement, desire, glorious striving of human art!

From a cleft in the heart of the world she saluted it. . . . It had come all the way; when men lived in caves, it

was there. A vanished race; but along the trails, in the stream, under the spreading cactus, there still glittered

FROM the day of Fred's arrival, he and Thea were unceasingly active. They took long rides into the Navajo

pine forests, bought turquoises and silver brace lets from the wandering Indian herdsmen, and rode twenty

miles to Flagstaff upon the slightest pretext. Thea had never felt this pleasant excitement about any man

before, and she found herself trying very hard to please young Ottenburg. She was never tired, never dull.

There was a zest about waking up in the morning and dressing, about walking, riding, even about sleep.

One morning when Thea came out from her room at seven o'clock, she found Henry and Fred on the porch,

looking up at the sky. The day was already hot and there was no breeze. The sun was shining, but heavy

brown clouds were hanging in the west, like the smoke of a for est fire. She and Fred had meant to ride to

Flagstaff that morning, but Biltmer advised against it, foretelling a storm. After breakfast they lingered about

the house, waiting for the weather to make up its mind. Fred had brought his guitar, and as they had the

diningroom to themselves, he made Thea go over some songs with him. They got interested and kept it up

until Mrs. Biltmer came to set the table for dinner. Ottenburg knew some of the Mexican things Spanish

Johnny used to sing. Thea had never before happened to tell him about Spanish Johnny, and he seemed more

After dinner they were too restless to endure the ranch house any longer, and ran away to the canyon to

practice with singlesticks. Fred carried a slicker and a sweater, and he made Thea wear one of the rubber

hats that hung in Biltmer's gunroom. As they crossed the pasture land the clumsy slicker kept catching in the

"Why don't you drop that thing?" Thea asked. "I won't mind a shower. I've been wet before."

From the canyon they were unable to watch the sky, since only a strip of the zenith was visible. The flat ledge

about the watchtower was the only level spot large enough for singlestick exercise, and they were still

practicing there when, at about four o'clock, a tremendous roll of thunder echoed between the cliffs and the

Fred thrust the sticks in a cleft in the rock. "We're in for it, Thea. Better make for your cave where there are

blankets." He caught her elbow and hurried her along the path before the cliffhouses. They made the

halfmile at a quick trot, and as they ran the rocks and the sky and the air between the cliffs turned a turbid

green, like the color in a moss agate. When they reached the blanketed rock room, they looked at each other

and laughed. Their faces had taken on a greenish pallor. Thea's hair, even, was green.

"Dark as pitch in here," Fred exclaimed as they hurried over the old rock doorstep. "But it's warm. The rocks

hold the heat. It's going to be terribly cold outside, all right." He was interrupted by a deafening peal of

thunder. "Lord, what an echo! Lucky you don't mind. It's worth watching out there. We needn't come in yet."

The green light grew murkier and murkier. The smaller vegetation was blotted out. The yuccas, the cedars,

and PINONS stood dark and rigid, like bronze. The swallows flew up with sharp, terrified twitterings. Even

the quak ing asps were still. While Fred and Thea watched from the doorway, the light changed to purple.

Clouds of dark vapor, like chlorine gas, began to float down from the head of the canyon and hung between

them and the cliffhouses in the opposite wall. Before they knew it, the wall itself had disappeared. The air

was positively venomouslooking, and grew colder every minute. The thunder seemed to crash against one

The moment the rain broke, it beat the vapors down. In the gulf before them the water fell in spouts, and

dashed from the high cliffs overhead. It tore aspens and chokecherry bushes out of the ground and left the

yuccas hanging by their tough roots. Only the little cedars stood black and unmoved in the torrents that fell

from so far above. The rock chamber was full of fine spray from the streams of water that shot over the

doorway. Thea crept to the back wall and rolled herself in a blanket, and Fred threw the heavier blankets over

her. The wool of the Navajo sheep was soon kindled by the warmth of her body, and was impenetrable to

dampness. Her hair, where it hung below the rubber hat, gathered the mois ture like a sponge. Fred put on

the slicker, tied the sweater about his neck, and settled himself crosslegged beside her. The chamber was so

dark that, although he could see the outline of her head and shoulders, he could not see her face. He struck a

wax match to light his pipe. As he sheltered it between his hands, it sizzled and sputtered, throwing a yellow

"You look like a gypsy," he said as he dropped the match. "Any one you'd rather be shut up with than me?

"Not especially." Fred smoked in silence, listening to the roar of the water outside. "We may not get away

He laughed grimly and pulled on his pipe. "Do you know where you're at, Miss Thea Kronborg?" he said at

last. "You've got me going pretty hard, I suppose you know. I've had a lot of sweethearts, but I've never been

so muchengrossed before. What are you going to do about it?" He heard nothing from the blankets. "Are

Thea struggled up among the blankets. "I want you for everything. I don't know whether I'm what people call

in love with you or not. In Moonstone that meant sitting in a hammock with somebody. I don't want to sit in a

ham mock with you, but I want to do almost everything else. Oh, hundreds of things!"

"I don't know. I'll have to think about that. Maybe I would." She freed herself from her wrappings and stood

up. "It's not raining so hard now. Hadn't we better start this minute? It will be night before we get to

Fred struck another match. "It's seven. I don't know how much of the path may be washed away. I don't even

Thea went to the doorway and looked out. "There's nothing else to do. The sweater and the slicker will keep

me dry, and this will be my chance to find out whether these shoes are really watertight. They cost a week's

sal ary." She retreated to the back of the cave. "It's getting blacker every minute."

Ottenburg took a brandy flask from his coat pocket. "Better have some of this before we start. Can you take it

Thea lifted it obediently to her lips. She put on the sweater and Fred helped her to get the clumsy slicker on

over it. He buttoned it and fastened the high collar. She could feel that his hands were hurried and clumsy.

The coat was too big, and he took off his necktie and belted it in at the waist. While she tucked her hair more

securely under the rubber hat he stood in front of her, between her and the gray doorway, without moving.

"If you are," he spoke quietly, without moving, except to bend his head forward a little.

Thea laughed and put her hands on his shoulders. "You know how to handle me, don't you?" she whispered.

"Thea, Thea, Thea!" Fred whispered her name three times, shaking her a little as if to waken her. It was too

When she kissed him she had not hidden her face on his shoulder,she had risen a little on her toes, and

stood straight and free. In that moment when he came close to her actual personality, he felt in her the same

expansion that he had noticed at Mrs. Nathanmeyer's. She became freer and stronger under impulses. When

she rose to meet him like that, he felt her flash into everything that she had ever suggested to him, as if she

She pushed him away and shot past him out into the rain. "Now for it, Fred," she called back exultantly. The

rain was pouring steadily down through the dying gray twilight, and muddy streams were spouting and

Fred caught her and held her back. "Keep behind me, Thea. I don't know about the path. It may be gone alto

But the path was older than the white man's Arizona. The rush of water had washed away the dust and stones

that lay on the surface, but the rock skeleton of the Indian trail was there, ready for the foot. Where the

streams poured down through gullies, there was always a cedar or a PINON to cling to. By wading and

slipping and climbing, they got along. As they neared the head of the canyon, where the path lifted and rose

in steep loops to the surface of the plateau, the climb was more difficult. The earth above had broken away

and washed down over the trail, bringing rocks and bushes and even young trees with it. The last ghost of

daylight was dying and there was no time to lose. The canyon behind them was already black.

"We've got to go right through the top of this pine tree, Thea. No time to hunt a way around. Give me your

hand." After they had crashed through the mass of branches, Fred stopped abruptly. "Gosh, what a hole! Can

He cleared the washout, slipped on the wet rock at the farther side, and caught himself just in time to escape a

tumble. "If I could only find something to hold to, I could give you a hand. It's so cursed dark, and there are

no trees here where they're needed. Here's something; it's a root. It will hold all right." He braced himself on

the rock, gripped the crooked root with one hand and swung himself across toward Thea, holding out his arm.

"Good jump! I must say you don't lose your nerve in a tight place. Can you keep at it a little longer? We're

almost out. Have to make that next ledge. Put your foot on my knee and catch something to pull by."

Thea went up over his shoulder. "It's hard ground up here," she panted. "Did I wrench your arm when I

They emerged gasping upon the black plateau. In the last five minutes the darkness had solidified and it

seemed as if the skies were pouring black water. They could not see where the sky ended or the plain began.

The light at the ranch house burned a steady spark through the rain. Fred drew Thea's arm through his and

they struck off toward the light. They could not see each other, and the rain at their backs seemed to drive

them along. They kept laughing as they stumbled over tufts of grass or stepped into slippery pools. They were

"I can't even see the whites of your eyes, Thea. But I'd know who was here stepping out with me, anywhere.

Part coyote you are, by the feel of you. When you make up your mind to jump, you jump! My gracious,

"Cactus spines. Didn't I tell you when I grabbed the cactus? I thought it was a root. Are we going straight?"

"I don't know. Somewhere near it, I think. I'm very comfortable, aren't you? You're warm, except your

cheeks. How funny they are when they're wet. Still, you always feel like you. I like this. I could walk to

Flagstaff. It's fun, not being able to see anything. I feel surer of you when I can't see you. Will you run away

Thea laughed. "I won't run far tonight. I'll think about it. Look, Fred, there's somebody coming."

The moving light bobbed toward them. In half an hour Thea was in her big feather bed, drinking hot lentil

ON the first day of September Fred Ottenburg and Thea Kronborg left Flagstaff by the eastbound express.

As the bright morning advanced, they sat alone on the rear platform of the observation car, watching the

yellow miles unfold and disappear. With complete content they saw the brilliant, empty country flash by.

They were tired of the desert and the dead races, of a world without change or ideas. Fred said he was glad to

"To Chicago, I suppose. Where else would we be going?" Thea hunted for a handkerchief in her hand bag.

"I wasn't sure, so I had the trunks checked to Albu querque. We can recheck there to Chicago, if you like.

Why Chicago? You'll never go back to Bowers. Why wouldn't this be a good time to make a run for it? We

could take the southern branch at Albuquerque, down to El Paso, and then over into Mexico. We are

Thea sighted along the steel rails that quivered in the light behind them. "I don't see why I couldn't marry you

Fred took the handbag out of her nervous clasp and swung it about on his finger. "You've no particular love

for that spot, have you? Besides, as I've told you, my family would make a row. They are an excitable lot.

They discuss and argue everlastingly. The only way I can ever put anything through is to go ahead, and

"Yes; I understand. I don't mind that. I don't want to marry your family. I'm sure you wouldn't want to marry

"When we get to Winslow, you look about the freight yards and you'll probably see several yellow cars with

my name on them. That's why, my dear. When your visitingcard is on every beer bottle, you can't do things

quietly. Things get into the papers." As he watched her troubled expression, he grew anxious. He leaned

forward on his campchair, and kept twirling the handbag between his knees. "Here's a suggestion, Thea," he

said presently. "Dismiss it if you don't like it: suppose we go down to Mexico on the chance. You've never

seen anything like Mexico City; it will be a lark for you, anyhow. If you change your mind, and don't want to

marry me, you can go back to Chicago, and I'll take a steamer from Vera Cruz and go up to New York. When

I get to Chicago, you'll be at work, and nobody will ever be the wiser. No reason why we shouldn't both

travel in Mexico, is there? You'll be traveling alone. I'll merely tell you the right places to stop, and come to

take you driving. I won't put any pressure on you. Have I ever?" He swung the bag toward her and looked up

"No, you haven't," she murmured. She was thinking that her own position might be less difficult if he had

"You have your own future in the back of your mind all the time," Fred began, "and I have it in mine. I'm not

going to try to carry you off, as I might another girl. If you wanted to quit me, I couldn't hold you, no matter

how many times you had married me. I don't want to over persuade you. But I'd like mighty well to get you

down to that jolly old city, where everything would please you, and give myself a chance. Then, if you

thought you could have a better time with me than without me, I'd try to grab you before you changed your

Thea drew her veil down over her face. "I think I am, a little; about you," she said quietly. Fred's irony

"What's at the bottom of your mind, Thea?" he asked hurriedly. "I can't tell. Why do you consider it at all, if

Her face was halfaverted. He was thinking that it looked older and more firmalmost hardunder a veil.

"Isn't it possible to do things without having any very clear reason?" she asked slowly. "I have no plan in the

back of my mind. Now that I'm with you, I want to be with you; that's all. I can't settle down to being alone

again. I am here today because I want to be with you today." She paused. "One thing, though; if I gave you

my word, I'd keep it. And you could hold me, though you don't seem to think so. Maybe I'm not sentimental,

but I'm not very light, either. If I went off with you like this, it wouldn't be to amuse myself."

Ottenburg's eyes fell. His lips worked nervously for a moment. "Do you mean that you really care for me,

"I guess so. It's like anything else. It takes hold of you and you've got to go through with it, even if you're

afraid. I was afraid to leave Moonstone, and afraid to leave Harsanyi. But I had to go through with it."

"Yes; more than I've ever been. But I don't think I could go back. The past closes up behind one, somehow.

One would rather have a new kind of misery. The old kind seems like death or unconsciousness. You can't

force your life back into that mould again. No, one can't go back." She rose and stood by the back grating of

Fred went to her side. She pushed up her veil and turned her most glowing face to him. Her eyes were wet

and there were tears on her lashes, but she was smiling the rare, wholehearted smile he had seen once or

twice be fore. He looked at her shining eyes, her parted lips, her chin a little lifted. It was as if they were

colored by a sun rise he could not see. He put his hand over hers and clasped it with a strength she felt. Her

"Will you always be like you were down there, if I go with you?" she asked under her breath.

"That's the only promise I'll ask you for. Now go away for a while and let me think about it. Come back at

"Anything will do, Thea, if you'll only let me keep an eye on you. The rest of the world doesn't interest me

Fred dropped her hand and turned away. As he glanced back from the front end of the observation car, he saw

that she was still standing there, and any one would have known that she was brooding over something. The

earnestness of her head and shoulders had a certain nobility. He stood looking at her for a moment.

When he reached the forward smokingcar, Fred took a seat at the end, where he could shut the other

passengers from his sight. He put on his travelingcap and sat down wearily, keeping his head near the

window. "In any case, I shall help her more than I shall hurt her," he kept saying to himself. He admitted that

this was not the only motive which impelled him, but it was one of them. "I'll make it my business in life to

get her on. There's nothing else I care about so much as seeing her have her chance. She hasn't touched her

real force yet. She isn't even aware of it. Lord, don't I know something about them? There isn't one of them

that has such a depth to draw from. She'll be one of the great artists of our time. Playing accompani ments

for that cheesefaced sneak! I'll get her off to Ger many this winter, or take her. She hasn't got any time to

Ottenburg certainly meant to make it up to her, in so far as he could. His feeling was as generous as strong

human feelings are likely to be. The only trouble was, that he was married already, and had been since he was

His older friends in Chicago, people who had been friends of his family, knew of the unfortunate state of his

personal affairs; but they were people whom in the natural course of things Thea Kronborg would scarcely

meet. Mrs. Frederick Ottenburg lived in California, at Santa Bar bara, where her health was supposed to be

better than elsewhere, and her husband lived in Chicago. He visited his wife every winter to reinforce her

position, and his devoted mother, although her hatred for her daughterin law was scarcely approachable in

words, went to Santa Barbara every year to make things look better and to relieve her son.

When Frederick Ottenburg was beginning his junior year at Harvard, he got a letter from Dick Brisbane, a

Kansas City boy he knew, telling him that his FIANCEE, Miss Edith Beers, was going to New York to buy

her trousseau. She would be at the Holland House, with her aunt and a girl from Kansas City who was to be a

bridesmaid, for two weeks or more. If Ottenburg happened to be going down to New York, would he call

Fred did happen to be going to New York. He was going down from New Haven, after the Thanksgiving

game. He called on Miss Beers and found her, as he that night tele graphed Brisbane, a "ripping beauty, no

mistake." He took her and her aunt and her uninteresting friend to the theater and to the opera, and he asked

them to lunch with him at the Waldorf. He took no little pains in arranging the luncheon with the head waiter.

Miss Beers was the sort of girl with whom a young man liked to seem experi enced. She was dark and

slender and fiery. She was witty and slangy; said daring things and carried them off with NONCHALANCE.

Her childish extravagance and contempt for all the serious facts of life could be charged to her father's

generosity and his long packinghouse purse. Freaks that would have been vulgar and ostentatious in a more

simple minded girl, in Miss Beers seemed whimsical and pictur esque. She darted about in magnificent

furs and pumps and closeclinging gowns, though that was the day of full skirts. Her hats were large and

floppy. When she wrig gled out of her moleskin coat at luncheon, she looked like a slim black weasel. Her

satin dress was a mere sheath, so conspicuous by its severity and scantness that every one in the diningroom

stared. She ate nothing but alligatorpear salad and hothouse grapes, drank a little champagne, and took

cognac in her coffee. She ridiculed, in the raciest slang, the singers they had heard at the opera the night

before, and when her aunt pretended to reprove her, she murmured indifferently, "What's the matter with you,

old sport?" She rattled on with a subdued loquacious ness, always keeping her voice low and monotonous,

always looking out of the corner of her eye and speaking, as it were, in asides, out of the corner of her mouth.

She was scornful of everything,which became her eyebrows. Her face was mobile and discontented, her

eyes quick and black. There was a sort of smouldering fire about her, young Ottenburg thought. She

After luncheon Miss Beers said she was going uptown to be fitted, and that she would go alone because her

aunt made her nervous. When Fred held her coat for her, she murmured, "Thank you, Alphonse," as if she

were address ing the waiter. As she stepped into a hansom, with a long stretch of thin silk stocking, she said

negligently, over her fur collar, "Better let me take you along and drop you somewhere." He sprang in after

It was a bright winter day, and bitterly cold. Miss Beers asked Fred to tell her about the game at New Haven,

and when he did so paid no attention to what he said. She sank back into the hansom and held her muff before

her face, lowering it occasionally to utter laconic remarks about the people in the carriages they passed,

interrupt ing Fred's narrative in a disconcerting manner. As they entered the Park he happened to glance

under her wide black hat at her black eyes and hairthe muff hid every thing elseand discovered that

she was crying. To his solicitous inquiry she replied that it "was enough to make you damp, to go and try on

Further explanations followed. She had thought she was "perfectly cracked" about Brisbane, until she met

Fred at the Holland House three days ago. Then she knew she would scratch Brisbane's eyes out if she

Fred told the driver to keep going. What did she want to do? Well, she didn't know. One had to marry some

body, after all the machinery had been put in motion. Perhaps she might as well scratch Brisbane as anybody

Of course, Fred agreed, one had to marry somebody. And certainly this girl beat anything he had ever been

up against before. Again he told the driver to go ahead. Did she mean that she would think of marrying him,

by any chance? Of course she did, Alphonse. Hadn't he seen that all over her face three days ago? If he

By this time Fred was beginning to feel sorry for the driver. Miss Beers, however, was compassionless. After

a few more turns, Fred suggested tea at the Casino. He was very cold himself, and remembering the shining

silk hose and pumps, he wondered that the girl was not frozen. As they got out of the hansom, he slipped the

At the teatable, in a snug glass enclosure, with the steam sputtering in the pipes beside them and a brilliant

winter sunset without, they developed their plan. Miss Beers had with her plenty of money, destined for

tradesmen, which she was quite willing to divert into other channelsthe first excitement of buying a

trousseau had worn off, any way. It was very much like any other shopping. Fred had his allowance and a

few hundred he had won on the game. She would meet him tomorrow morning at the Jersey ferry. They

could take one of the westbound Pennsylvania trains and goanywhere, some place where the laws weren't

too fussy. Fred had not even thought about the laws! It would be all right with her father; he knew

Now that they were engaged, she thought she would like to drive a little more. They were jerked about in the

cab for another hour through the deserted Park. Miss Beers, having removed her hat, reclined upon Fred's

The next morning they left Jersey City by the latest fast train out. They had some misadventures, crossed

several States before they found a justice obliging enough to marry two persons whose names automatically

instigated inquiry. The bride's family were rather pleased with her originality; besides, any one of the

Ottenburg boys was clearly a better match than young Brisbane. With Otto Ottenburg, how ever, the affair

went down hard, and to his wife, the once proud Katarina Furst, such a disappointment was almost

unbearable. Her sons had always been clay in her hands, and now the GELIEBTER SOHN had escaped her.

Beers, the packer, gave his daughter a house in St. Louis, and Fred went into his father's business. At the end

of a year, he was mutely appealing to his mother for sympathy. At the end of two, he was drinking and in

open rebellion. He had learned to detest his wife. Her wastefulness and cruelty revolted him. The ignorance

and the fatuous con ceit which lay behind her grimacing mask of slang and ridicule humiliated him so

deeply that he became absolutely reckless. Her grace was only an uneasy wriggle, her auda city was the

result of insolence and envy, and her wit was restless spite. As her personal mannerisms grew more and more

odious to him, he began to dull his perceptions with champagne. He had it for tea, he drank it with dinner,

and during the evening he took enough to insure that he would be well insulated when he got home. This

behavior spread alarm among his friends. It was scandalous, and it did not occur among brewers. He was

violating the NOBLESSE OBLIGE of his guild. His father and his father's partners looked alarmed.

When Fred's mother went to him and with clasped hands entreated an explanation, he told her that the only

trouble was that he couldn't hold enough wine to make life endur able, so he was going to get out from

under and enlist in the navy. He didn't want anything but the shirt on his back and clean salt air. His mother

Mrs. Otto Ottenburg went to Kansas City to see Mr. Beers, and had the satisfaction of telling him that he had

brought up his daughter like a savage, EINE UNGEBILDETE. All the Ottenburgs and all the Beers, and

many of their friends, were drawn into the quarrel. It was to public opinion, how ever and not to his

mother's activities, that Fred owed his partial escape from bondage. The cosmopolitan brewing world of St.

Louis had conservative standards. The Otten burgs' friends were not predisposed in favor of the plunging

Kansas City set, and they disliked young Fred's wife from the day that she was brought among them. They

found her ignorant and illbred and insufferably impertinent. When they became aware of how matters were

going between her and Fred, they omitted no opportunity to snub her. Young Fred had always been popular,

and St. Louis people took up his cause with warmth. Even the younger men, among whom Mrs. Fred tried to

draft a following, at first avoided and then ignored her. Her defeat was so conspicuous, her life became such a

desert, that she at last consented to accept the house in Santa Barbara which Mrs. Otto Otten burg had long

owned and cherished. This villa, with its luxuriant gardens, was the price of Fred's furlough. His mother was

only too glad to offer it in his behalf. As soon as his wife was established in California, Fred was trans

A divorce was the one thing Edith would never, never, give him. She told him so, and she told his family so,

and her father stood behind her. She would enter into no arrangement that might eventually lead to divorce.

She had insulted her husband before guests and servants, had scratched his face, thrown handmirrors and

hairbrushes and nailscissors at him often enough, but she knew that Fred was hardly the fellow who would

go into court and offer that sort of evidence. In her behavior with other men she was discreet.

After Fred went to Chicago, his mother visited him often, and dropped a word to her old friends there, who

were already kindly disposed toward the young man. They gossiped as little as was compatible with the

interest they felt, undertook to make life agreeable for Fred, and told his story only where they felt it would

do good: to girls who seemed to find the young brewer attractive. So far, he had behaved well, and had kept

Since he was transferred to Chicago, Fred had been abroad several times, and had fallen more and more into

the way of going about among young artists,people with whom personal relations were incidental. With

women, and even girls, who had careers to follow, a young man might have pleasant friendships without

being regarded as a pro spective suitor or lover. Among artists his position was not irregular, because with

them his marriageableness was not an issue. His tastes, his enthusiasm, and his agreeable personality made

With Thea Kronborg he had allowed himself more lib erty than he usually did in his friendships or

gallantries with young artists, because she seemed to him distinctly not the marrying kind. She impressed him

as equipped to be an artist, and to be nothing else; already directed, con centrated, formed as to mental

habit. He was generous and sympathetic, and she was lonely and needed friendship; needed cheerfulness. She

had not much power of reaching out toward useful people or useful experiences, did not see opportunities.

She had no tact about going after good positions or enlisting the interest of influential persons. She

antagonized people rather than conciliated them. He discovered at once that she had a merry side, a robust

humor that was deep and hearty, like her laugh, but it slept most of the time under her own doubts and the

dull ness of her life. She had not what is called a "sense of humor." That is, she had no intellectual humor;

no power to enjoy the absurdities of people, no relish of their preten tiousness and inconsistencieswhich

only depressed her. But her joviality, Fred felt, was an asset, and ought to be developed. He discovered that

she was more receptive and more effective under a pleasant stimulus than she was under the gray grind which

she considered her salvation. She was still Methodist enough to believe that if a thing were hard and irksome,

it must be good for her. And yet, whatever she did well was spontaneous. Under the least glow of excitement,

as at Mrs. Nathanmeyer's, he had seen the apprehensive, frowning drudge of Bowers's studio flash into a

His interest in Thea was serious, almost from the first, and so sincere that he felt no distrust of himself. He

be lieved that he knew a great deal more about her possibili ties than Bowers knew, and he liked to think

that he had given her a stronger hold on life. She had never seen her self or known herself as she did at Mrs.

Nathanmeyer's musical evenings. She had been a different girl ever since. He had not anticipated that she

would grow more fond of him than his immediate usefulness warranted. He thought he knew the ways of

artists, and, as he said, she must have been "at it from her cradle." He had imagined, perhaps, but never really

believed, that he would find her waiting for him sometime as he found her waiting on the day he reached the

Biltmer ranch. Once he found her so well, he did not pretend to be anything more or less than a reasonably

wellintentioned young man. A lovesick girl or a flirtatious woman he could have handled easily enough. But

a personality like that, unconsciously reveal ing itself for the first time under the exaltation of a per sonal

feeling,what could one do but watch it? As he used to say to himself, in reckless moments back there in the

canyon, "You can't put out a sunrise." He had to watch it, and then he had to share it.

Besides, was he really going to do her any harm? The Lord knew he would marry her if he could! Marriage

would be an incident, not an end with her; he was sure of that. If it were not he, it would be some one else;

some one who would be a weight about her neck, probably; who would hold her back and beat her down and

divert her from the first plunge for which he felt she was gathering all her ener gies. He meant to help her,

and he could not think of another man who would. He went over his unmarried friends, East and West, and he

could not think of one who would know what she was driving ator care. The clever ones were selfish, the

"Damn it, if she's going to fall in love with somebody, it had better be me than any of the othersof the sort

she'd find. Get her tied up with some conceited ass who'd try to make her over, train her like a puppy! Give

one of 'em a big nature like that, and he'd be horrified. He wouldn't show his face in the clubs until he'd gone

after her and combed her down to conform to some fool idea in his own headput there by some other

woman, too, his first sweetheart or his grandmother or a maiden aunt. At least, I understand her. I know what

she needs and where she's bound, and I mean to see that she has a fighting chance."

His own conduct looked crooked, he admitted; but he asked himself whether, between men and women, all

ways were not more or less crooked. He believed those which are called straight were the most dangerous of

all. They seemed to him, for the most part, to lie between windowless stone walls, and their rectitude had

been achieved at the expense of light and air. In their unquestioned regularity lurked every sort of human

cruelty and meanness, and every kind of humiliation and suffering. He would rather have any woman he

cared for wounded than crushed. He would deceive her not once, he told himself fiercely, but a hundred

When Fred went back to the observation car at one o'clock, after the luncheon call, it was empty, and he

"It's as I said. Things have closed behind me. I can't go back, so I am going onto Mexico?" She lifted her

Fred met it with a sinking heart. Had he really hoped she would give him another answer? He would have

given pretty much anything But there, that did no good. He could give only what he had. Things were

never complete in this world; you had to snatch at them as they came or go without. Nobody could look into

her face and draw back, nobody who had any courage. She had courage enough for anythinglook at her

mouth and chin and eyes! Where did it come from, that light? How could a face, a familiar face, become so

the picture of hope, be painted with the very colors of youth's exaltation? She was right; she was not one of

those who draw back. Some people get on by avoiding dangers, others by riding through them.

They stood by the railing looking back at the sand levels, both feeling that the train was steaming ahead very

fast. Fred's mind was a confusion of images and ideas. Only two things were clear to him: the force of her

determination, and the belief that, handicapped as he was, he could do better by her than another man would

do. He knew he would always remember her, standing there with that ex pectant, forwardlooking smile,

DR. HOWARD ARCHIE had come down to Denver for a meeting of the stockholders in the San Felipe

silver mine. It was not absolutely necessary for him to come, but he had no very pressing cases at home.

Winter was closing down in Moonstone, and he dreaded the dull ness of it. On the 10th day of January,

therefore, he was registered at the Brown Palace Hotel. On the morning of the 11th he came down to

breakfast to find the streets white and the air thick with snow. A wild northwester was blowing down from

the mountains, one of those beautiful storms that wrap Denver in dry, furry snow, and make the city a

loadstone to thousands of men in the mountains and on the plains. The brakemen out on their boxcars, the

miners up in their diggings, the lonely homesteaders in the sand hills of Yucca and Kit Carson Counties,

begin to think of Denver, muffled in snow, full of food and drink and good cheer, and to yearn for her with

that admiration which makes her, more than other American cities, an object of sentiment.

Howard Archie was glad he had got in before the storm came. He felt as cheerful as if he had received a

legacy that morning, and he greeted the clerk with even greater friendliness than usual when he stopped at the

desk for his mail. In the diningroom he found several old friends seated here and there before substantial

breakfasts: cattle men and mining engineers from odd corners of the State, all looking fresh and well

pleased with themselves. He had a word with one and another before he sat down at the little table by a

window, where the Austrian head waiter stood attentively behind a chair. After his breakfast was put before

him, the doctor began to run over his letters. There was one directed in Thea Kronborg's handwriting, for

warded from Moonstone. He saw with astonishment, as he put another lump of sugar into his cup, that this

letter bore a New York postmark. He had known that Thea was in Mexico, traveling with some Chicago

people, but New York, to a Denver man, seems much farther away than Mexico City. He put the letter behind

his plate, upright against the stem of his water goblet, and looked at it thoughtfully while he drank his second

cup of coffee. He had been a little anxious about Thea; she had not written to him for a long while.

As he never got good coffee at home, the doctor always drank three cups for breakfast when he was in

Denver. Oscar knew just when to bring him a second pot, fresh and smoking. "And more cream, Oscar,

please. You know I like lots of cream," the doctor murmured, as he opened the square envelope, marked in

the upper righthand cor ner, "Everett House, Union Square." The text of the letter was as follows:

I have not written to you for a long time, but it has not been unintentional. I could not write you frankly, and

so I would not write at all. I can be frank with you now, but not by letter. It is a great deal to ask, but I wonder

if you could come to New York to help me out? I have got into difficulties, and I need your advice. I need

your friendship. I am afraid I must even ask you to lend me money, if you can without serious inconvenience.

I have to go to Ger many to study, and it can't be put off any longer. My voice is ready. Needless to say, I

don't want any word of this to reach my family. They are the last people I would turn to, though I love my

mother dearly. If you can come, please telegraph me at this hotel. Don't despair of me. I'll make it up to you

This in a bold, jagged handwriting with a Gothic turn to the letters,something between a highly

sophisticated hand and a very unsophisticated one,not in the least smooth or flowing.

The doctor bit off the end of a cigar nervously and read the letter through again, fumbling distractedly in his

pock ets for matches, while the waiter kept trying to call his attention to the box he had just placed before

him. At last Oscar came out, as if the idea had just struck him, "Matches, sir?"

"Yes, thank you." The doctor slipped a coin into his palm and rose, crumpling Thea's letter in his hand and

thrusting the others into his pocket unopened. He went back to the desk in the lobby and beckoned to the

"Harry, I've got to pull out unexpectedly. Call up the Burlington, will you, and ask them to route me to New

York the quickest way, and to let us know. Ask for the hour I'll get in. I have to wire."

"Certainly, Dr. Archie. Have it for you in a minute." The young man's pallid, cleanscraped face was all

sympa thetic interest as he reached for the telephone. Dr. Archie put out his hand and stopped him.

"I'll wait here for him. If I don't happen to catch him, nail him and get me. Thank you, Harry."

The doctor spoke gratefully and turned away. He began to pace the lobby, his hands behind him, watching the

bronze elevator doors like a hawk. At last Captain Harris issued from one of them, tall and imposing, wearing

a Stetson and fierce mustaches, a fur coat on his arm, a soli taire glittering upon his little finger and another

in his black satin ascot. He was one of the grand old bluffers of those good old days. As gullible as a

schoolboy, he had managed, with his sharp eye and knowing air and twisted blond mustaches, to pass himself

off for an astute financier, and the Denver papers respectfully referred to him as the Rothschild of Cripple

Dr. Archie stopped the Captain on his way to breakfast. "Must see you a minute, Captain. Can't wait. Want to

The Captain grandly bestowed his hat upon an eager porter who had already lifted his fur coat tenderly from

his arm and stood nursing it. In removing his hat, the Cap tain exposed a bald, flushed dome, thatched about

the ears with yellowish gray hair. "Bad time to sell, doctor. You want to hold on to San Felipe, and buy more.

"Oh, not a great sum. Five or six thousand. I've been buying up close and have run short."

"I see, I see. Well, doctor, you'll have to let me get through that door. I was out last night, and I'm going to

get my bacon, if you lose your mine." He clapped Archie on the shoulder and pushed him along in front of

Dr. Archie attended the Captain and waited while he gave his order, taking the seat the old promoter indi

"Now, sir," the Captain turned to him, "you don't want to sell anything. You must be under the impression

that I'm one of these damned New England sharks that get their pound of flesh off the widow and orphan. If

you're a little short, sign a note and I'll write a check. That's the way gentlemen do business. If you want to

put up some San Felipe as collateral, let her go, but I shan't touch a share of it. Pens and ink, please,

The Captain took out his checkbook and a book of blank notes, and adjusted his nosenippers. He wrote a

few words in one book and Archie wrote a few in the other. Then they each tore across perforations and

"That's the way. Saves office rent," the Captain com mented with satisfaction, returning the books to his

The Captain's face brightened as he saw Oscar approach ing with a tray, and he began tucking the corner of

his napkin inside his collar, over his ascot. "Don't let them unload anything on you back there, doctor," he

said gen ially, "and don't let them relieve you of anything, either. Don't let them get any Cripple stuff off

you. We can man age our own silver out here, and we're going to take it out by the ton, sir!"

The doctor left the diningroom, and after another con sultation with the clerk, he wrote his first telegram to

He stood and heard the message actually clicked off on the wire, with the feeling that she was hearing the

click at the other end. Then he sat down in the lobby and wrote a note to his wife and one to the other doctor

in Moonstone. When he at last issued out into the storm, it was with a feeling of elation rather than of

anxiety. Whatever was wrong, he could make it right. Her letter had practically said so.

He tramped about the snowy streets, from the bank to the Union Station, where he shoved his money under

the grating of the ticket window as if he could not get rid of it fast enough. He had never been in New York,

never been farther east than Buffalo. "That's rather a shame," he reflected boyishly as he put the long tickets

in his pocket, "for a man nearly forty years old." However, he thought as he walked up toward the club, he

was on the whole glad that his first trip had a human interest, that he was going for something, and because

he was wanted. He loved holi days. He felt as if he were going to Germany himself. "Queer,"he went

over it with the snow blowing in his face,"but that sort of thing is more interesting than mines and making

your daily bread. It's worth paying out to be in on it,for a fellow like me. And when it's Thea Oh, I back

her!" he laughed aloud as he burst in at the door of the Athletic Club, powdered with snow.

Archie sat down before the New York papers and ran over the advertisements of hotels, but he was too

restless to read. Probably he had better get a new overcoat, and he was not sure about the shape of his collars.

"I don't want to look different to her from everybody else there," he mused. "I guess I'll go down and have

So he plunged out into the snow again and started for his tailor's. When he passed a florist's shop he stopped

and looked in at the window, smiling; how naturally pleasant things recalled one another. At the tailor's he

kept whis tling, "Flow gently, Sweet Afton," while Van Dusen ad vised him, until that resourceful tailor

and haberdasher exclaimed, "You must have a date back there, doctor; you behave like a bridegroom," and

Before he let him go, Van put his finger on the Masonic pin in his client's lapel. "Mustn't wear that, doctor.

FRED OTTENBURG, smartly dressed for the after noon, with a long black coat and gaiters was sitting in

the dusty parlor of the Everett House. His manner was not in accord with his personal freshness, the good

lines of his clothes, and the shining smoothness of his hair. His attitude was one of deep dejection, and his

face, though it had the cool, unimpeachable fairness possible only to a very blond young man, was by no

means happy. A page shuffled into the room and looked about. When he made out the dark figure in a

shadowy corner, tracing over the carpet pattern with a cane, he droned, "The lady says you can come up, sir."

Fred picked up his hat and gloves and followed the crea ture, who seemed an aged boy in uniform, through

dark corridors that smelled of old carpets. The page knocked at the door of Thea's sittingroom, and then

wandered away. Thea came to the door with a telegram in her hand. She asked Ottenburg to come in and

pointed to one of the clumsy, sullenlooking chairs that were as thick as they were high. The room was

brown with time, dark in spite of two windows that opened on Union Square, with dull curtains and carpet,

and heavy, respectablelooking furni ture in somber colors. The place was saved from utter dis malness by

a coal fire under the black marble mantelpiece, brilliantly reflected in a long mirror that hung between the

two windows. This was the first time Fred had seen the room, and he took it in quickly, as he put down his

Thea seated herself at the walnut writingdesk, still holding the slip of yellow paper. "Dr. Archie is coming,"

"Well, that's good, at any rate," her visitor replied with a determined effort at cheerfulness. Then, turning to

"Of course I want him. I would never have asked such a thing of him if I hadn't wanted him a great deal. It's a

very expensive trip." Thea spoke severely. Then she went on, in a milder tone. "He doesn't say anything

Fred was standing before the mantel, rubbing his hands together nervously. "Probably. You are still

determined to call on him?" He sat down tentatively in the chair Thea had indicated. "I don't see why you

won't borrow from me, and let him sign with you, for instance. That would constitute a perfectly regular

Thea turned toward him from the desk. "We won't take that up again, Fred. I should have a different feeling

about it if I went on your money. In a way I shall feel freer on Dr. Archie's, and in another way I shall feel

more bound. I shall try even harder." She paused. "He is almost like my father," she added irrelevantly.

"Still, he isn't, you know," Fred persisted. "It would n't be anything new. I've loaned money to students

"Yes; I know you're generous," Thea hurried over it, "but this will be the best way. He will be here on Friday

"I think you mentioned it. That's rather soon. May I smoke?" he took out a small cigarette case. "I sup pose

"Just as soon as I can," she replied with a restless move ment of her arms, as if her darkblue dress were too

"And yet," the young man mused, "we got in only four days ago. Facts really don't count for much, do they?

Thea winced, but she did not answer him. She put the telegram back in its envelope and placed it carefully in

"I suppose," Fred brought out with effort, "that your friend is in your confidence?"

"He always has been. I shall have to tell him about my self. I wish I could without dragging you in."

Fred shook himself. "Don't bother about where you drag me, please," he put in, flushing. "I don't give" he

"I'm afraid," Thea went on gravely, "that he won't understand. He'll be hard on you."

Fred studied the white ash of his cigarette before he flicked it off. "You mean he'll see me as even worse than

I am. Yes, I suppose I shall look very low to him: a fifth rate scoundrel. But that only matters in so far as it

Thea sighed. "We'll both look pretty low. And after all, we must really be just about as we shall look to him."

Ottenburg started up and threw his cigarette into the grate. "That I deny. Have you ever been really frank with

this preceptor of your childhood, even when you WERE a child? Think a minute, have you? Of course not!

From your cradle, as I once told you, you've been `doing it' on the side, living your own life, admitting to

yourself things that would horrify him. You've always deceived him to the extent of letting him think you

different from what you are. He couldn't understand then, he can't under stand now. So why not spare

She shook her head. "Of course, I've had my own thoughts. Maybe he has had his, too. But I've never done

anything before that he would much mind. I must put myself right with him,as right as I can,to begin

over. He'll make allowances for me. He always has. But I'm afraid he won't for you."

"Leave that to him and me. I take it you want me to see him?" Fred sat down again and began absently to

trace the carpet pattern with his cane. "At the worst," he spoke wanderingly, "I thought you'd perhaps let me

go in on the business end of it and invest along with you. You'd put in your talent and ambition and hard

work, and I'd put in the money andwell, nobody's good wishes are to be scorned, not even mine. Then,

when the thing panned out big, we could share together. Your doctor friend hasn't cared half so much about

"He's cared a good deal. He doesn't know as much about such things as you do. Of course you've been a great

deal more help to me than any one else ever has," Thea said quietly. The black clock on the mantel began to

strike. She listened to the five strokes and then said, "I'd have liked your helping me eight months ago. But

"You weren't ready for it eight months ago." Fred leaned back at last in his chair. "You simply weren't ready

for it. You were too tired. You were too timid. Your whole tone was too low. You couldn't rise from a chair

like that,"she had started up apprehensively and gone toward the window. "You were fumbling and

awkward. Since then you've come into your personality. You were always locking horns with it before. You

were a sullen little drudge eight months ago, afraid of being caught at either looking or moving like yourself.

Nobody could tell anything about you. A voice is not an instrument that's found readymade. A voice is

personality. It can be as big as a circus and as common as dirt. There's good money in that kind, too, but I

don't happen to be interested in them. Nobody could tell much about what you might be able to do, last

"Yes, I know you did." Thea walked over to the old fashioned mantel and held her hands down to the glow

of the fire. "I owe so much to you, and that's what makes things hard. That's why I have to get away from you

altogether. I depend on you for so many things. Oh, I did even last winter, in Chicago!" She knelt down by

the grate and held her hands closer to the coals. "And one thing leads to another."

Ottenburg watched her as she bent toward the fire. His glance brightened a little. "Anyhow, you couldn't look

as you do now, before you knew me. You WERE clumsy. And whatever you do now, you do splendidly. And

you can't cry enough to spoil your face for more than ten minutes. It comes right back, in spite of you. It's

Without rising she turned her face away. Fred went on impetuously. "Oh, you can turn it away from me,

Thea; you can take it away from me! All the same" his spurt died and he fell back. "How can you turn on

"I haven't. But when you arranged with yourself to take me in like that, you couldn't have been thinking very

kindly of me. I can't understand how you carried it through, when I was so easy, and all the circumstances

Her crouching position by the fire became threatening. Fred got up, and Thea also rose.

"No," he said, "I can't make you see that now. Some time later, perhaps, you will understand better. For one

thing, I honestly could not imagine that words, names, meant so much to you." Fred was talking with the

des peration of a man who has put himself in the wrong and who yet feels that there was an idea of truth in

his conduct. "Suppose that you had married your brakeman and lived with him year after year, caring for him

even less than you do for your doctor, or for Harsanyi. I suppose you would have felt quite all right about it,

because that relation has a name in good standing. To me, that seemssickening!" He took a rapid turn

about the room and then as Thea remained standing, he rolled one of the elephantine chairs up to the hearth

"Sit down and listen to me for a moment, Thea." He began pacing from the hearthrug to the window and back

again, while she sat down compliantly. "Don't you know most of the people in the world are not individuals

at all? They never have an individual idea or experience. A lot of girls go to boardingschool together, come

out the same season, dance at the same parties, are married off in groups, have their babies at about the same

time, send their children to school together, and so the human crop renews itself. Such women know as much

about the reality of the forms they go through as they know about the wars they learn the dates of. They get

their most per sonal experiences out of novels and plays. Everything is secondhand with them. Why, you

Thea sat looking toward the mantel, her eyes half closed, her chin level, her head set as if she were enduring

some thing. Her hands, very white, lay passive on her dark gown. From the window corner Fred looked at

them and at her. He shook his head and flashed an angry, tormented look out into the blue twilight over the

Square, through which muffled cries and calls and the clang of car bells came up from the street. He turned

"Say what you will, Thea Kronborg, you are not that sort of person. You will never sit alone with a pacifier

and a novel. You won't subsist on what the old ladies have put into the bottle for you. You will always break

through into the realities. That was the first thing Harsanyi found out about you; that you couldn't be kept on

the outside. If you'd lived in Moonstone all your life and got on with the discreet brakeman, you'd have had

just the same nature. Your children would have been the realities then, probably. If they'd been

commonplace, you'd have killed them with driving. You'd have managed some way to live twenty times as

Fred paused. He sought along the shadowy ceiling and heavy mouldings for words. When he began again, his

voice was lower, and at first he spoke with less conviction, though again it grew on him. "Now I knew all

thisoh, knew it better than I can ever make you understand! You've been running a handicap. You had no

time to lose. I wanted you to have what you need and to get on fast get through with me, if need be; I

counted on that. You've no time to sit round and analyze your conduct or your feelings. Other women give

their whole lives to it. They've nothing else to do. Helping a man to get his divorce is a career for them; just

Fred dived fiercely into his pockets as if he would rip them out and scatter their contents to the winds. Stop

ping before her, he took a deep breath and went on again, this time slowly. "All that sort of thing is foreign to

you. You'd be nowhere at it. You haven't that kind of mind. The grammatical niceties of conduct are dark to

you. You're simpleand poetic." Fred's voice seemed to be wandering about in the thickening dusk. "You

won't play much. You won't, perhaps, love many times." He paused. "And you did love me, you know. Your

railroad friend would have understood me. I COULD have thrown you back. The reverse was there,it

stared me in the face, but I couldn't pull it. I let you drive ahead." He threw out his hands. What Thea

noticed, oddly enough, was the flash of the firelight on his cuff link. He turned again. "And you'll always

There was a long silence. Fred had dropped into a chair. He seemed, after such an explosion, not to have a

word left in him. Thea put her hand to the back of her neck and pressed it, as if the muscles there were

"Well," she said at last, "I at least overlook more in you than I do in myself. I am always excusing you to

"Then why, in Heaven's name, won't you let me be your friend? You make a scoundrel of me, borrowing

"If I borrow from him, it's to study. Anything I took from you would be different. As I said before, you'd be

"Keeping! I like your language. It's pure Moonstone, Thea,like your point of view. I wonder how long

"Well, I've never said I wasn't Moonstone, have I? I am, and that's why I want Dr. Archie. I can't see anything

so funny about Moonstone, you know." She pushed her chair back a little from the hearth and clasped her

hands over her knee, still looking thoughtfully into the red coals. "We always come back to the same thing,

Fred. The name, as you call it, makes a difference to me how I feel about myself. You would have acted very

differently with a girl of your own kind, and that's why I can't take anything from you now. You've made

everything impossible. Being married is one thing and not being married is the other thing, and that's all there

is to it. I can't see how you reasoned with yourself, if you took the trouble to reason. You say I was too much

alone, and yet what you did was to cut me off more than I ever had been. Now I'm going to try to make good

"Make good to your friends!" Fred burst out. "What one of them cares as I care, or believes as I believe? I've

told you I'll never ask a gracious word from you until I can ask it with all the churches in Christendom at my

Thea looked up, and when she saw Fred's face, she thought sadly that he, too, looked as if things were spoiled

for him. "If you know me as well as you say you do, Fred," she said slowly, "then you are not being honest

with your self. You know that I can't do things halfway. If you kept me at allyou'd keep me." She

dropped her head wearily on her hand and sat with her forehead resting on her fingers.

Fred leaned over her and said just above his breath, "Then, when I get that divorce, you'll take it up with me

again? You'll at least let me know, warn me, before there is a serious question of anybody else?"

Without lifting her head, Thea answered him. "Oh, I don't think there will ever be a question of anybody else.

Not if I can help it. I suppose I've given you every reason to think there will be,at once, on shipboard, any

Ottenburg drew himself up like a shot. "Stop it, Thea!" he said sharply. "That's one thing you've never done.

That's like any common woman." He saw her shoulders lift a little and grow calm. Then he went to the other

side of the room and took up his hat and gloves from the sofa. He came back cheerfully. "I didn't drop in to

bully you this afternoon. I came to coax you to go out for tea with me somewhere." He waited, but she did

Her handkerchief had fallen. Fred picked it up and put it on her knee, pressing her fingers over it.

"Goodnight, dear and wonderful," he whispered,"wonderful and dear! How can you ever get away from

me when I will always follow you, through every wall, through every door, wher ever you go." He looked

down at her bent head, and the curve of her neck that was so sad. He stooped, and with his lips just touched

her hair where the firelight made it ruddiest. "I didn't know I had it in me, Thea. I thought it was all a fairy

tale. I don't know myself any more." He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "The salt's all gone out of your

hair. It's full of sun and wind again. I believe it has memories." Again she heard him take a deep breath. "I

could do without you for a lifetime, if that would give you to yourself. A woman like you doesn't find herself,

She thrust her free hand up to him. He kissed it softly, as if she were asleep and he were afraid of waking her.

From the door he turned back irrelevantly. "As to your old friend, Thea, if he's to be here on Friday,

why,"he snatched out his watch and held it down to catch the light from the grate,"he's on the train now!

ON Friday afternoon Thea Kronborg was walking ex citedly up and down her sittingroom, which at that

hour was flooded by thin, clear sunshine. Both windows were open, and the fire in the grate was low, for the

day was one of those false springs that sometimes blow into New York from the sea in the middle of winter,

soft, warm, with a persuasive salty moisture in the air and a relaxing thaw under foot. Thea was flushed and

animated, and she seemed as restless as the sooty sparrows that chirped and cheeped distractingly about the

windows. She kept looking at the black clock, and then down into the Square. The room was full of flowers,

and she stopped now and then to arrange them or to move them into the sunlight. After the bellboy came to

announce a visitor, she took some Roman hyacinths from a glass and stuck them in the front of her darkblue

When at last Fred Ottenburg appeared in the doorway, she met him with an exclamation of pleasure. "I am

glad you've come, Fred. I was afraid you might not get my note, and I wanted to see you before you see Dr.

Archie. He's so nice!" She brought her hands together to em phasize her statement.

"Is he? I'm glad. You see I'm quite out of breath. I didn't wait for the elevator, but ran upstairs. I was so

pleased at being sent for." He dropped his hat and over coat. "Yes, I should say he is nice! I don't seem to

"Yes, he brought them himself, in a big box. He brought lots with him besides flowers. Oh, lots of things!

The old Moonstone feeling,"Thea moved her hand back and forth in the air, fluttering her fingers,"the

"No, I haven't!" Thea spoke excitedly, moving about over the sunny patches on the grimy carpet. "I've lied to

him, just as you said I had always lied to him, and that's why I'm so happy. I've let him think what he likes to

think. Oh, I couldn't do anything else, Fred," she shook her head emphatically. "If you'd seen him when he

came in, so pleased and excited! You see this is a great adventure for him. From the moment I began to talk

to him, he entreated me not to say too much, not to spoil his notion of me. Not in so many words, of course.

But if you'd seen his eyes, his face, his kind hands! Oh, no! I couldn't." She took a deep breath, as if with a

Thea sat down on the edge of the sofa and began shutting and opening her hands nervously. "Well, I told him

enough, and not too much. I told him all about how good you were to me last winter, getting me engagements

and things, and how you had helped me with my work more than anybody. Then I told him about how you

sent me down to the ranch when I had no money or anything." She paused and wrinkled her forehead. "And I

told him that I wanted to marry you and ran away to Mexico with you, and that I was awfully happy until you

told me that you couldn't marry me becausewell, I told him why." Thea dropped her eyes and moved the

"Yes, just like that, and asked no questions. He was hurt; he had some wretched moments. I could see him

squirming and squirming and trying to get past it. He kept shutting his eyes and rubbing his forehead. But

when I told him that I absolutely knew you wanted to marry me, that you would whenever you could, that

"And that satisfied him?" Fred asked wonderingly. He could not quite imagine what kind of person Dr.

"He took me by the shoulders once and asked, oh, in such a frightened way, `Thea, was he GOOD to you, this

young man?' When I told him you were, he looked at me again: `And you care for him a great deal, you

believe in him?' Then he seemed satisfied." Thea paused. "You see, he's just tremendously good, and

tremendously afraid of thingsof some things. Otherwise he would have got rid of Mrs. Archie." She looked

up suddenly: "You were right, though; one can't tell people about things they don't know already."

Fred stood in the window, his back to the sunlight, fingering the jonquils. "Yes, you can, my dear. But you

must tell it in such a way that they don't know you're telling it, and that they don't know they're hear ing it."

Thea smiled past him, out into the air. "I see. It's a secret. Like the sound in the shell."

"What's that?" Fred was watching her and thinking how moving that faraway expression, in her, happened to

She came back. "Oh, something old and Moonstony! I have almost forgotten it myself. But I feel better than I

thought I ever could again. I can't wait to be off. Oh, Fred," she sprang up, "I want to get at it!"

As she broke out with this, she threw up her head and lifted herself a little on her toes. Fred colored and

looked at her fearfully, hesitatingly. Her eyes, which looked out through the window, were brightthey had

no memories. No, she did not remember. That momentary elevation had no associations for her. It was

He looked her up and down and laughed and shook his head. "You are just all I want you to beand that

is, not for me! Don't worry, you'll get at it. You are at it. My God! have you ever, for one moment, been at

Thea did not answer him, and clearly she had not heard him. She was watching something out in the thin light

"Yes. He has never been in New York before. He wants to go about. Where shall I tell him to go?"

"Wouldn't it be a better plan, since you wish me to meet him, for you both to dine with me? It would seem

only natural and friendly. You'll have to live up a little to his notion of us." Thea seemed to consider the

suggestion favorably. "If you wish him to be easy in his mind," Fred went on, "that would help. I think,

myself, that we are rather nice together. Put on one of the new dresses you got down there, and let him see

how lovely you can be. You owe him some pleasure, after all the trouble he has taken."

Thea laughed, and seemed to find the idea exciting and pleasant. "Oh, very well! I'll do my best. Only don't

Fred looked at his watch. "Your monument up there is fast. I'll be here with a cab at eight. I'm anxious to

meet him. You've given me the strangest idea of his callow innocence and aged indifference."

She shook her head. "No, he's none of that. He's very good, and he won't admit things. I love him for it. Now,

as I look back on it, I see that I've always, even when I was little, shielded him."

As she laughed, Fred caught the bright spark in her eye that he knew so well, and held it for a happy in

AT nine o'clock that evening our three friends were seated in the balcony of a French restaurant, much gayer

and more intimate than any that exists in New York today. This old restaurant was built by a lover of plea

sure, who knew that to dine gayly human beings must have the reassurance of certain limitations of space and

of a certain definite style; that the walls must be near enough to suggest shelter, the ceiling high enough to

give the chandeliers a setting. The place was crowded with the kind of people who dine late and well, and Dr.

Archie, as he watched the animated groups in the long room below the balcony, found this much the most

festive scene he had ever looked out upon. He said to himself, in a jovial mood somewhat sustained by the

cheer of the board, that this evening alone was worth his long journey. He followed attentively the orchestra,

ensconced at the farther end of the balcony, and told Thea it made him feel "quite musi cal" to recognize

"The Invitation to the Dance" or "The Blue Danube," and that he could remember just what kind of day it was

For the first few moments, when he was introduced to young Ottenburg in the parlor of the Everett House, the

doctor had been awkward and unbending. But Fred, as his father had often observed, "was not a good mixer

for nothing." He had brought Dr. Archie around during the short cab ride, and in an hour they had become old

From the moment when the doctor lifted his glass and, looking consciously at Thea, said, "To your success,"

Fred liked him. He felt his quality; understood his courage in some directions and what Thea called his

timidity in others, his unspent and miraculously preserved youthfulness. Men could never impose upon the

doctor, he guessed, but women always could. Fred liked, too, the doctor's manner with Thea, his bashful

admiration and the little hesitancy by which he betrayed his consciousness of the change in her. It was just

this change that, at present, interested Fred more than anything else. That, he felt, was his "created value,"

and it was his best chance for any peace of mind. If that were not real, obvious to an old friend like Archie,

Fred got a good deal, too, out of their talk about Moon stone. From her questions and the doctor's answers

he was able to form some conception of the little world that was almost the measure of Thea's experience, the

one bit of the human drama that she had followed with sympathy and understanding. As the two ran over the

list of their friends, the mere sound of a name seemed to recall volumes to each of them, to indicate mines of

knowledge and observation they had in common. At some names they laughed delightedly, at some

"You two young people must come out to Moonstone when Thea gets back," the doctor said hospitably.

"Oh, we shall!" Fred caught it up. "I'm keen to know all these people. It is very tantalizing to hear only their

"Would they interest an outsider very much, do you think, Dr. Archie?" Thea leaned toward him. "Isn't it only

The doctor glanced at her deferentially. Fred had noticed that he seemed a little afraid to look at her

squarelyper haps a trifle embarrassed by a mode of dress to which he was unaccustomed. "Well, you are

practically an outsider yourself, Thea, now," he observed smiling. "Oh, I know," he went on quickly in

response to her gesture of protest, "I know you don't change toward your old friends, but you can see us all

from a distance now. It's all to your advantage that you can still take your old interest, isn't it, Mr.

"That's exactly one of her advantages, Dr. Archie. Nobody can ever take that away from her, and none of us

who came later can ever hope to rival Moonstone in the impression we make. Her scale of values will always

be the Moonstone scale. And, with an artist, that IS an advantage." Fred nodded.

Dr. Archie looked at him seriously. "You mean it keeps them from getting affected?"

While the waiter filled the glasses, Fred pointed out to Thea a big black French barytone who was eating

ancho vies by their tails at one of the tables below, and the doctor looked about and studied his fellow

"Do you know, Mr. Ottenburg," he said deeply, "these people all look happier to me than our Western people

Fred laughed to Thea above the glass he had just lifted. "Some of them are getting a good deal out of it now,

Thea chuckled and darted him a quick glance. "Bench joy! Where did you get that slang?"

"That happens to be very old slang, my dear. Older than Moonstone or the sovereign State of Colorado. Our

old friend Mr. Nathanmeyer could tell us why it happens to hit you." He leaned forward and touched Thea's

wrist, "See that fur coat just coming in, Thea. It's D'Albert. He's just back from his Western tour. Fine head,

"To go back," said Dr. Archie; "I insist that people do look happier here. I've noticed it even on the street, and

Fred turned to him cheerfully. "New York people live a good deal in the fourth dimension, Dr. Archie. It's

The doctor was interested. "The fourth dimension," he repeated slowly; "and is that slang, too?"

"No,"Fred shook his head,"that's merely a figure. I mean that life is not quite so personal here as it is in

your part of the world. People are more taken up by hobbies, interests that are less subject to reverses than

their personal affairs. If you're interested in Thea's voice, for instance, or in voices in general, that interest is

The doctor looked at him narrowly. "You think that's about the principal difference between country people

Fred was a little disconcerted at being followed up so resolutely, and he attempted to dismiss it with a

pleasantry. "I've never thought much about it, doctor. But I should say, on the spur of the moment, that that is

one of the principal differences between people anywhere. It's the consolation of fellows like me who don't

accomplish much. The fourth dimension is not good for business, but we think we have a better time."

Dr. Archie leaned back in his chair. His heavy shoulders were contemplative. "And she," he said slowly;

"should you say that she is one of the kind you refer to?" He in clined his head toward the shimmer of the

palegreen dress beside him. Thea was leaning, just then, over the balcony rail, her head in the light from the

"Never, never!" Fred protested. "She's as hardheaded as the worst of youwith a difference."

The doctor sighed. "Yes, with a difference; something that makes a good many revolutions to the second.

Fred laughed. "Did you, though? So you were on the track of it? Oh, it's there! We can't get round it, miss,"

as Thea looked back inquiringly. "Dr. Archie, there's a fellow townsman of yours I feel a real kinship for." He

pressed a cigar upon Dr. Archie and struck a match for him. "Tell me about Spanish Johnny."

The doctor smiled benignantly through the first waves of smoke. "Well, Johnny's an old patient of mine, and

he's an old admirer of Thea's. She was born a cosmopolitan, and I expect she learned a good deal from

Johnny when she used to run away and go to Mexican Town. We thought it a queer freak then."

The doctor launched into a long story, in which he was often eagerly interrupted or joyously confirmed by

Thea, who was drinking her coffee and forcing open the petals of the roses with an ardent and rather rude

hand. Fred set tled down into enjoying his comprehension of his guests. Thea, watching Dr. Archie and

interested in his presenta tion, was unconsciously impersonating her suave, gold tinted friend. It was

delightful to see her so radiant and responsive again. She had kept her promise about looking her best; when

one could so easily get together the colors of an apple branch in early spring, that was not hard to do. Even

Dr. Archie felt, each time he looked at her, a fresh consciousness. He recognized the fine texture of her

mother's skin, with the difference that, when she reached across the table to give him a bunch of grapes, her

arm was not only white, but somehow a little dazzling. She seemed to him taller, and freer in all her

movements. She had now a way of taking a deep breath when she was interested, that made her seem very

strong, somehow, and brought her at one quite overpoweringly. If he seemed shy, it was not that he was

intimidated by her worldly clothes, but that her greater positiveness, her whole augmented self, made him feel

Fred, on his part, was reflecting that the awkward posi tion in which he had placed her would not confine or

chafe her long. She looked about at other people, at other women, curiously. She was not quite sure of

herself, but she was not in the least afraid or apologetic. She seemed to sit there on the edge, emerging from

one world into another, taking her bearings, getting an idea of the concerted movement about her, but with

absolute selfconfidence. So far from shrink ing, she expanded. The mere kindly effort to please Dr. Archie

There was much talk of aurae at that time, and Fred mused that every beautiful, every compellingly beautiful

woman, had an aura, whether other people did or no. There was, certainly, about the woman he had brought

up from Mexico, such an emanation. She existed in more space than she occupied by measurement. The

enveloping air about her head and shoulders was subsidizedwas more moving than she herself, for in it

lived the awakenings, all the first sweetness that life kills in people. One felt in her such a wealth of

JUGENDZEIT, all those flowers of the mind and the blood that bloom and perish by the myriad in the few

exhaustless years when the imagination first kindles. It was in watching her as she emerged like this, in being

near and not too near, that one got, for a moment, so much that one had lost; among other legendary things

After they had left Thea at her hotel, Dr. Archie admit ted to Fred, as they walked up Broadway through the

rap idly chilling air, that once before he had seen their young friend flash up into a more potent self, but in a

darker mood. It was in his office one night, when she was at home the summer before last. "And then I got

the idea," he added simply, "that she would not live like other people: that, for better or worse, she had

"Oh, we'll see that it's for better, you and I," Fred reassured him. "Won't you come up to my hotel with me? I

THEA was to sail on Tuesday, at noon, and on Saturday Fred Ottenburg arranged for her passage, while she

and Dr. Archie went shopping. With rugs and seaclothes she was already provided; Fred had got everything

of that sort she needed for the voyage up from Vera Cruz. On Sunday afternoon Thea went to see the

Harsanyis. When she returned to her hotel, she found a note from Ottenburg, saying that he had called and

On Monday morning, while she was at breakfast, Fred came in. She knew by his hurried, distracted air as he

entered the diningroom that something had gone wrong. He had just got a telegram from home. His mother

had been thrown from her carriage and hurt; a concussion of some sort, and she was unconscious. He was

leaving for St. Louis that night on the eleven o'clock train. He had a great deal to attend to during the day. He

would come that evening, if he might, and stay with her until train time, while she was doing her packing.

All day Thea was somewhat cast down. She was sorry for Fred, and she missed the feeling that she was the

one person in his mind. He had scarcely looked at her when they exchanged words at the breakfasttable. She

felt as if she were set aside, and she did not seem so important even to herself as she had yesterday. Certainly,

she reflected, it was high time that she began to take care of herself again. Dr. Archie came for dinner, but she

sent him away early, telling him that she would be ready to go to the boat with him at halfpast ten the next

morning. When she went upstairs, she looked gloomily at the open trunk in her sittingroom, and at the trays

piled on the sofa. She stood at the window and watched a quiet snowstorm spending itself over the city. More

than anything else, falling snow always made her think of Moonstone; of the Kohlers' garden, of Thor's sled,

of dressing by lamplight and starting off to school before the paths were broken.

When Fred came, he looked tired, and he took her hand almost without seeing her.

"She was still unconscious at four this afternoon. It doesn't look very encouraging." He approached the fire

and warmed his hands. He seemed to have contracted, and he had not at all his habitual ease of manner. "Poor

mother!" he exclaimed; "nothing like this should have happened to her. She has so much pride of person.

She's not at all an old woman, you know. She's never got beyond vigorous and rather dashing middle age."

He turned abruptly to Thea and for the first time really looked at her. "How badly things come out! She'd

have liked you for a daughterinlaw. Oh, you'd have fought like the devil, but you'd have respected each

other." He sank into a chair and thrust his feet out to the fire. "Still," he went on thoughtfully, seeming to

address the ceiling, "it might have been bad for you. Our big German houses, our good German

cookingyou might have got lost in the uphol stery. That substantial comfort might take the temper out of

you, dull your edge. Yes," he sighed, "I guess you were meant for the jolt of the breakers."

"I'm rather glad I'm not staying over until tomorrow," Fred reflected. "I think it's easier for me to glide out

like this. I feel now as if everything were rather casual, any how. A thing like that dulls one's feelings."

Thea, standing by her trunk, made no reply. Presently he shook himself and rose. "Want me to put those trays

Fred strolled over to the sofa, lifted a scarf from one of the trays and stood abstractedly drawing it through his

fingers. "You've been so kind these last few days, Thea, that I began to hope you might soften a little; that

"If you thought that, you were mistaken," she said slowly. "I've hardened, if anything. But I shan't carry any

"Yes, there is one thing, and it's a good deal to ask. If I get knocked out, or never get on, I'd like you to see

"Why, of course I shall. You may dismiss that from your mind. How fussy you are about money, Thea. You

Thea sat down in the chair he had quitted. "It's only poor people who feel that way about money, and who are

really honest," she said gravely. "Sometimes I think that to be really honest, you must have been so poor that

"To steal. I used to be, when I first went to Chicago and saw all the things in the big stores there. Never any

thing big, but little things, the kind I'd never seen before and could never afford. I did take something once,

Fred came toward her. For the first time she had his whole attention, in the degree to which she was

"A sachet. A little blue silk bag of orrisroot powder. There was a whole counterful of them, marked down to

fifty cents. I'd never seen any before, and they seemed irresistible. I took one up and wandered about the store

Fred laughed. "Crazy child! Why, your things always smell of orris; is it a penance?"

"No, I love it. But I saw that the firm didn't lose any thing by me. I went back and bought it there whenever

I had a quarter to spend. I got a lot to take to Arizona. I made it up to them."

"I'll bet you did!" Fred took her hand. "Why didn't I find you that first winter? I'd have loved you just as you

Thea shook her head. "No, you wouldn't, but you might have found me amusing. The Harsanyis said yester

day afternoon that I wore such a funny cape and that my shoes always squeaked. They think I've improved. I

"Yes. He thinks I've improved there, too. He said nice things to me. Oh, he was very nice! He agrees with

you about my going to Lehmann, if she'll take me. He came out to the elevator with me, after we had said

"He said, `When people, serious people, believe in you, they give you some of their best, sotake care of it,

"If you sang, I wish you had taken me along. Did you sing well?" Fred turned from her and went back to the

window. "I wonder when I shall hear you sing again." He picked up a bunch of violets and smelled them.

"You know, your leaving me like thiswell, it's almost inhu man to be able to do it so kindly and

"I suppose it is. It was almost inhuman to be able to leave home, too,the last time, when I knew it was for

good. But all the same, I cared a great deal more than anybody else did. I lived through it. I have no choice

Fred bent over her trunk and picked up something which proved to be a score, clumsily bound. "What's this?

Did you ever try to sing this?" He opened it and on the engraved titlepage read Wunsch's inscription,

"Wunsch gave me that when he went away. I've told you about him, my old teacher in Moonstone. He loved

"You have no idea at all where he is, Thea?" He leaned against the mantel and looked down at her.

"No, I wish I had. He may be dead by this time. That was five years ago, and he used himself hard. Mrs.

Kohler was always afraid he would die off alone somewhere and be stuck under the prairie. When we last

"If he were to be found, I'd like to do something for him. I seem to get a good deal of him from this." He

opened the book again, where he kept the place with his finger, and scrutinized the purple ink. "How like a

"No. I didn't know where the words were from until once, when Harsanyi sang it for me, I recognized them."

"Ray Kennedy!" he laughed. "It couldn't well have been better! Wunsch and Dr. Archie, and Ray, and I,"

he told them off on his fingers,"your whistlingposts! You haven't done so badly. We've backed you as we

could, some in our weakness and some in our might. In your dark hoursand you'll have themyou may

like to remember us." He smiled whimsically and dropped the score into the trunk. "You are taking that with

"Surely I am. I haven't so many keepsakes that I can afford to leave that. I haven't got many that I value so

"That you value so highly?" Fred echoed her gravity playfully. "You are delicious when you fall into your

"Perfectly good Moonstone, my dear. Like the ready made clothes that hang in the windows, made to fit

every body and fit nobody, a phrase that can be used on all occa sions. Oh,"he started across the room

again,"that's one of the fine things about your going! You'll be with the right sort of people and you'll learn

a good, live, warm German, that will be like yourself. You'll get a new speech full of shades and color like

your voice; alive, like your mind. It will be almost like being born again, Thea."

She was not offended. Fred had said such things to her before, and she wanted to learn. In the natural course

of things she would never have loved a man from whom she could not learn a great deal.

"Harsanyi said once," she remarked thoughtfully, "that if one became an artist one had to be born again, and

"Exactly. And when I see you again I shall not see you, but your daughter. May I?" He held up his cigarette

case questioningly and then began to smoke, taking up again the song which ran in his head:

"I have half an hour with you yet, and then, exit Fred." He walked about the room, smoking and singing the

words under his breath. "You'll like the voyage," he said ab ruptly. "That first approach to a foreign shore,

stealing up on it and finding itthere's nothing like it. It wakes up everything that's asleep in you. You won't

"I wish you would." Thea gave a deep sigh. "I wish one could look ahead and see what is coming to one."

"Oh, no!" Fred was smoking nervously; "that would never do. It's the uncertainty that makes one try. You've

never had any sort of chance, and now I fancy you'll make it up to yourself. You'll find the way to let yourself

Thea put her hand on her heart. "And then drop like the rocks we used to throwanywhere." She left the

chair and went over to the sofa, hunting for something in the trunk trays. When she came back she found Fred

sit ting in her place. "Here are some handkerchiefs of yours. I've kept one or two. They're larger than mine

"Thank you. How nicely they smell of your things!" He looked at the white squares for a moment and then

put them in his pocket. He kept the low chair, and as she stood beside him he took her hands and sat looking

intently at them, as if he were examining them for some special pur pose, tracing the long round fingers

with the tips of his own. "Ordinarily, you know, there are reefs that a man catches to and keeps his nose

above water. But this is a case by itself. There seems to be no limit as to how much I can be in love with you.

I keep going." He did not lift his eyes from her fingers, which he continued to study with the same fervor.

"Every kind of stringed instrument there is plays in your hands, Thea," he whispered, pressing them to his

She dropped beside him and slipped into his arms, shut ting her eyes and lifting her cheek to his. "Tell me

one thing," Fred whispered. "You said that night on the boat, when I first told you, that if you could you

would crush it all up in your hands and throw it into the sea. Would you, all those weeks?"

"No, I was angry then. I'm not now. I'd never give them up. Don't make me pay too much." In that embrace

they lived over again all the others. When Thea drew away from him, she dropped her face in her hands.

Rising to his feet, he put his hands under her elbows and lifted her gently. He drew her toward the door with

him. "Get all you can. Be generous with yourself. Don't stop short of splendid things. I want them for you

more than I want anything else, more than I want one splendid thing for myself. I can't help feeling that you'll

gain, somehow, by my losing so much. That you'll gain the very thing I lose. Take care of her, as Harsanyi

said. She's wonder ful!" He kissed her and went out of the door without look ing back, just as if he were

Thea went quickly into her bedroom. She brought out an armful of muslin things, knelt down, and began to

lay them in the trays. Suddenly she stopped, dropped for ward and leaned against the open trunk, her head

on her arms. The tears fell down on the dark old carpet. It came over her how many people must have said

goodbye and been unhappy in that room. Other people, before her time, had hired this room to cry in.

Strange rooms and strange streets and faces, how sick at heart they made one! Why was she going so far,

when what she wanted was some familiar place to hide in?the rock house, her little room in Moonstone,

her own bed. Oh, how good it would be to lie down in that little bed, to cut the nerve that kept one struggling,

that pulled one on and on, to sink into peace there, with all the family safe and happy down stairs. After all,

she was a Moonstone girl, one of the preacher's children. Everything else was in Fred's imagi nation. Why

was she called upon to take such chances? Any safe, humdrum work that did not compromise her would be

better. But if she failed now, she would lose her soul. There was nowhere to fall, after one took that step,

except into abysses of wretchedness. She knew what abysses, for she could still hear the old man playing in

the snowstorm, "Ach, ich habe sie verloren!" That melody was released in her like a passion of longing.

Every nerve in her body thrilled to it. It brought her to her feet, car ried her somehow to bed and into

That night she taught in Moonstone again: she beat her pupils in hideous rages, she kept on beating them. She

sang at funerals, and struggled at the piano with Harsanyi. In one dream she was looking into a handglass

and think ing that she was getting betterlooking, when the glass began to grow smaller and smaller and her

own reflection to shrink, until she realized that she was looking into Ray Kennedy's eyes, seeing her face in

that look of his which she could never forget. All at once the eyes were Fred Ottenburg's, and not Ray's. All

night she heard the shriek ing of trains, whistling in and out of Moonstone, as she used to hear them in her

sleep when they blew shrill in the winter air. But tonight they were terrifying,the spec tral, fated trains

In the morning she wakened breathless after a struggle with Mrs. Livery Johnson's daughter. She started up

with a bound, threw the blankets back and sat on the edge of the bed, her nightdress open, her long braids

hanging over her bosom, blinking at the daylight. After all, it was not too late. She was only twenty years old,

It is a glorious winter day. Denver, standing on her high plateau under a thrilling greenblue sky, is masked

in snow and glittering with sunlight. The Capitol building is actually in armor, and throws off the shafts of

the sun until the beholder is dazzled and the outlines of the building are lost in a blaze of reflected light. The

stone terrace is a white field over which fiery reflections dance, and the trees and bushes are faithfully

repeated in snowon every black twig a soft, blurred line of white. From the terrace one looks directly over

to where the mountains break in their sharp, familiar lines against the sky. Snow fills the gorges, hangs in

scarfs on the great slopes, and on the peaks the fiery sunshine is gathered up as by a burningglass.

Howard Archie is standing at the window of his private room in the offices of the San Felipe Mining

Company, on the sixth floor of the Raton Building, looking off at the mountain glories of his State while he

gives dictation to his secretary. He is ten years older than when we saw him last, and emphatically ten years

more prosperous. A decade of coming into things has not so much aged him as it has forti fied, smoothed,

and assured him. His sandy hair and imperial conceal whatever gray they harbor. He has not grown heavier,

but more flexible, and his massive shoulders carry fifty years and the control of his great mining inter ests

more lightly than they carried forty years and a coun try practice. In short, he is one of the friends to whom

we feel grateful for having got on in the world, for helping to keep up the general temperature and our own

confidence in life. He is an acquaintance that one would hurry to over take and greet among a hundred. In

his warm handshake and generous smile there is the stimulating cordiality of good fellows come into good

fortune and eager to pass it on; something that makes one think better of the lottery of life and resolve to try

When Archie had finished his morning mail, he turned away from the window and faced his secretary. "Did

Thomas Burk turned over the leaf of his calendar. "Governor Alden sent down to say that he wanted to see

you before he sends his letter to the Board of Pardons. Asked if you could go over to the State House this

T. B. swung round in his chair with a look of interest on his shrewd, cleanshaven face. "Old Jasper Flight

was in, Dr. Archie. I never expected to see him alive again. Seems he's tucked away for the winter with a

sister who's a housekeeper at the Oxford. He's all crippled up with rheumatism, but as fierce after it as ever.

Wants to know if you or the company won't grubstake him again. Says he's sure of it this time; had located

something when the snow shut down on him in December. He wants to crawl out at the first break in the

weather, with that same old burro with the split ear. He got somebody to winter the beast for him. He's

superstitious about that burro, too; thinks it's divinely guided. You ought to hear the line of talk he put up

here yesterday; said when he rode in his carriage, that burro was agoing to ride along with him."

"Well, send him a line and tell him to come in again. I like to hear him. Of all the crazy prospectors I've ever

known, he's the most interesting, because he's really crazy. It's a religious conviction with him, and with most

of 'em it's a gambling fever or pure vagrancy. But Jasper Flight believes that the Almighty keeps the secret of

the silver deposits in these hills, and gives it away to the deserving. He's a downright noble figure. Of course

I'll stake him! As long as he can crawl out in the spring. He and that burro are a sight together. The beast is

"If you stake him this time, you won't have to again," said T. B. knowingly. "He'll croak up there, mark my

word. Says he never ties the burro at night now, for fear he might be called sudden, and the beast would

"I guess if we knew the things those two have eaten, and haven't eaten, in their time, T. B., it would make us

vege tarians." The doctor sat down and looked thoughtful. "That's the way for the old man to go. It would be

pretty hard luck if he had to die in a hospital. I wish he could turn up something before he cashes in. But his

kind seldom do; they're bewitched. Still, there was Stratton. I've been meeting Jasper Flight, and his side meat

and tin pans, up in the mountains for years, and I'd miss him. I always halfway believe the fairy tales he spins

me. Old Jasper Flight," Archie murmured, as if he liked the name or the picture it called up.

A clerk came in from the outer office and handed Archie a card. He sprang up and exclaimed, "Mr.

Fred Ottenburg entered, clad in a long, furlined coat, holding a checkedcloth hat in his hand, his cheeks

and eyes bright with the outdoor cold. The two men met before Archie's desk and their handclasp was longer

than friend ship prompts except in regions where the blood warms and quickens to meet the dry cold. Under

the general keying up of the altitude, manners take on a heartiness, a vivacity, that is one expression of the

halfunconscious excitement which Colorado people miss when they drop into lower strata of air. The heart,

we are told, wears out early in that high atmosphere, but while it pumps it sends out no sluggish stream. Our

"When did you get in, Fred? And what have you come for?" Archie gave him a quizzical glance.

"I've come to find out what you think you're doing out here," the younger man declared emphatically. "I want

"Anything on tonight? Then suppose you dine with me. Where can I pick you up at fivethirty?"

"Bixby's office, general freight agent of the Burlington." Ottenburg began to button his overcoat and drew on

his gloves. "I've got to have one shot at you before I go, Archie. Didn't I tell you Pinky Alden was a cheap

Alden's backer laughed and shook his head. "Oh, he's worse than that, Fred. It isn't polite to mention what he

Ottenburg paused, his hand on the doorknob, his high color challenging the doctor's calm. "I'm disgusted with

"Well, he's been an experience," Archie muttered. "I'm not coy about admitting it, am I?"

Ottenburg flung open the door. "Small credit to you. Even the women are out for capital and corruption, I

hear. Your Governor's done more for the United Breweries in six months than I've been able to do in six

That afternoon at five o'clock Dr. Archie emerged from the State House after his talk with Governor Alden,

and crossed the terrace under a saffron sky. The snow, beaten hard, was blue in the dusk; a day of blinding

sunlight had not even started a thaw. The lights of the city twinkled pale below him in the quivering violet

air, and the dome of the State House behind him was still red with the light from the west. Before he got into

his car, the doctor paused to look about him at the scene of which he never tired. Archie lived in his own

house on Colfax Avenue, where he had roomy grounds and a rose garden and a conserva tory. His

housekeeping was done by three Japanese boys, devoted and resourceful, who were able to manage Archie's

dinner parties, to see that he kept his engagements, and to make visitors who stayed at the house so

Archie had never known what comfort was until he became a widower, though with characteristic delicacy,

or dishonesty, he insisted upon accrediting his peace of mind to the San Felipe, to Time, to anything but his

Mrs. Archie died just before her husband left Moonstone and came to Denver to live, six years ago. The poor

wo man's fight against dust was her undoing at last. One summer day when she was rubbing the parlor

upholstery with gasoline,the doctor had often forbidden her to use it on any account, so that was one of the

pleasures she seized upon in his absence,an explosion occurred. No body ever knew exactly how it

happened, for Mrs. Archie was dead when the neighbors rushed in to save her from the burning house. She

Moonstone severity relented toward her somewhat after her death. But even while her old cronies at Mrs.

Smiley's millinery store said that it was a terrible thing, they added that nothing but a powerful explosive

COULD have killed Mrs. Archie, and that it was only right the doctor should have a chance.

Archie's past was literally destroyed when his wife died. The house burned to the ground, and all those

material reminders which have such power over people disappeared in an hour. His mining interests now took

him to Denver so often that it seemed better to make his headquarters there. He gave up his practice and left

Moonstone for good. Six months afterward, while Dr. Archie was living at the Brown Palace Hotel, the San

Felipe mine began to give up that silver hoard which old Captain Harris had always accused it of concealing,

and San Felipe headed the list of mining quotations in every daily paper, East and West. In a few years Dr.

Archie was a very rich man. His mine was such an important item in the mineral out put of the State, and

Archie had a hand in so many of the new industries of Colorado and New Mexico, that his poli tical

influence was considerable. He had thrown it all, two years ago, to the new reform party, and had brought

about the election of a governor of whose conduct he was now heartily ashamed. His friends believed that

WHEN Ottenburg and his host reached the house on Colfax Avenue, they went directly to the library, a long

double room on the second floor which Archie had arranged exactly to his own taste. It was full of books and

mounted specimens of wild game, with a big writingtable at either end, stiff, oldfashioned engravings,

When one of the Japanese boys brought the cocktails, Fred turned from the fine specimen of peccoray he had

been examining and said, "A man is an owl to live in such a place alone, Archie. Why don't you marry? As

for me, just because I can't marry, I find the world full of charm ing, unattached women, any one of whom I

"You're more knowing than I." Archie spoke politely. "I'm not very wide awake about women. I'd be likely to

pick out one of the uncomfortable onesand there are a few of them, you know." He drank his cocktail and

rubbed his hands together in a friendly way. "My friends here have charming wives, and they don't give me a

chance to get lonely. They are very kind to me, and I have a great many pleasant friendships."

Fred put down his glass. "Yes, I've always noticed that women have confidence in you. You have the doctor's

"The friendship of attractive women? Oh, dear, yes! I depend upon it a great deal."

The butler announced dinner, and the two men went downstairs to the diningroom. Dr. Archie's dinners

"I saw the Fuel and Iron people today," Ottenburg said, looking up from his soup. "Their heart is in the right

place. I can't see why in the mischief you ever got mixed up with that reform gang, Archie. You've got

nothing to reform out here. The situation has always been as simple as two and two in Colorado; mostly a

"Well,"Archie spoke tolerantly,"some of the young fellows seemed to have redhot convictions, and I

Ottenburg shrugged his shoulders. "A few dull young men who haven't ability enough to play the old game

the old way, so they want to put on a new game which doesn't take so much brains and gives away more

advertising that's what your antisaloon league and vice commission amounts to. They provide notoriety for

the fellows who can't distinguish themselves at running a business or prac ticing law or developing an

industry. Here you have a mediocre lawyer with no brains and no practice, trying to get a lookin on

something. He comes up with the novel proposition that the prostitute has a hard time of it, puts his picture in

the paper, and the first thing you know, he's a celebrity. He gets the rakeoff and she's just where she was

Dr. Archie laughed as he began to carve. "Pink seems to get under your skin. He's not worth talking about.

He's gone his limit. People won't read about his blame less life any more. I knew those interviews he gave

out would cook him. They were a last resort. I could have stopped him, but by that time I'd come to the

conclusion that I'd let the reformers down. I'm not against a general shakingup, but the trouble with Pinky's

crowd is they never get beyond a general writingup. We gave them a chance to do something, and they just

While Archie and his friend were busy with Colorado politics, the impeccable Japanese attended swiftly and

intelligently to his duties, and the dinner, as Ottenburg at last remarked, was worthy of more profitable

"So it is," the doctor admitted. "Well, we'll go up stairs for our coffee and cut this out. Bring up some

They stopped to examine a moose's head on the stair way, and when they reached the library the pine logs in

the fireplace had been lighted, and the coffee was bubbling before the hearth. Tai placed two chairs before the

"Bring the cigars in my lower desk drawer, boy," the doctor directed. "Too much light in here, isn't there,

Fred? Light the lamp there on my desk, Tai." He turned off the electric glare and settled himself deep into the

"To go back to our conversation, doctor," Fred began while he waited for the first steam to blow off his

coffee; "why don't you make up your mind to go to Washington? There'd be no fight made against you. I

needn't say the United Breweries would back you. There'd be some KUDOS coming to us, too; backing a

Dr. Archie measured his length in his chair and thrust his large boots toward the crackling pitchpine. He

drank his coffee and lit a big black cigar while his guest looked over the assortment of cigarettes on the tray.

"You say why don't I," the doctor spoke with the deliberation of a man in the position of having several

courses to choose from, "but, on the other hand, why should I?" He puffed away and seemed, through his

halfclosed eyes, to look down several long roads with the intention of luxuriously rejecting all of them and

remaining where he was. "I'm sick of politics. I'm disillusioned about serving my crowd, and I don't

particularly want to serve yours. Nothing in it that I particularly want; and a man's not effective in poli tics

unless he wants something for himself, and wants it hard. I can reach my ends by straighter roads. There are

plenty of things to keep me busy. We haven't begun to develop our resources in this State; we haven't had a

look in on them yet. That's the only thing that isn't fake making men and machines go, and actually turning

The doctor poured himself some white cordial and looked over the little glass into the fire with an expression

which led Ottenburg to believe that he was getting at something in his own mind. Fred lit a cigarette and let

"My boys, here," Archie went on, "have got me rather interested in Japan. Think I'll go out there in the

spring, and come back the other way, through Siberia. I've always wanted to go to Russia." His eyes still

hunted for some thing in his big fireplace. With a slow turn of his head he brought them back to his guest

and fixed them upon him. "Just now, I'm thinking of running on to New York for a few weeks," he ended

Ottenburg lifted his chin. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as if he began to see Archie's drift. "Shall you see Thea?"

"Yes." The doctor replenished his cordial glass. "In fact, I suspect I am going exactly TO see her. I'm getting

stale on things here, Fred. Best people in the world and always doing things for me. I'm fond of them, too, but

I've been with them too much. I'm getting illtempered, and the first thing I know I'll be hurting people's

feelings. I snapped Mrs. Dandridge up over the telephone this afternoon when she asked me to go out to

Colorado Springs on Sunday to meet some English people who are staying at the Antlers. Very nice of her to

want me, and I was as sour as if she'd been trying to work me for something. I've got to get out for a while, to

To this explanation Ottenburg had not paid much atten tion. He seemed to be looking at a fixed point: the

yellow glass eyes of a fine wildcat over one of the bookcases. "You've never heard her at all, have you?" he

"I was going on last March. Had everything arranged. And then old Cap Harris thought he could drive his car

and me through a lamppost and I was laid up with a com pound fracture for two months. So I didn't get to

Ottenburg studied the red end of his cigarette attentively. "She might have come out to see you. I remember

Archie moved uneasily. "Oh, she couldn't do that. She had to get back to Vienna to work on some new parts

"Well, then she couldn't, of course." Fred smoked his cigarette close and tossed the end into the fire. "I'm tre

mendously glad you're going now. If you're stale, she'll jack you up. That's one of her specialties. She got a

"Of course," the doctor apologized, "you know so much more about such things. I'm afraid it will be rather

"Never mind that." The younger man pulled himself up in his chair. "She gets it across to people who aren't

judges. That's just what she does." He relapsed into his former lassitude. "If you were stone deaf, it wouldn't

all be wasted. It's a great deal to watch her. Incidentally, you know, she is very beautiful. Photographs give

Dr. Archie clasped his large hands under his chin. "Oh, I'm counting on that. I don't suppose her voice will

Ottenburg smiled. "You'll know it, if you ever knew it. It's the same voice, only more so. You'll know it."

"Did you, in Germany that time, when you wrote me? Seven years ago, now. That must have been at the very

"Yes, somewhere near the beginning. She sang one of the Rhine daughters." Fred paused and drew himself

up again. "Sure, I knew it from the first note. I'd heard a good many young voices come up out of the Rhine,

but, by gracious, I hadn't heard one like that!" He fumbled for another cigarette. "Mahler was conducting that

night. I met him as he was leaving the house and had a word with him. `Interesting voice you tried out this

evening,' I said. He stopped and smiled. `Miss Kronborg, you mean? Yes, very. She seems to sing for the

idea. Unusual in a young singer.' I'd never heard him admit before that a singer could have an idea. She not

only had it, but she got it across. The Rhine music, that I'd known since I was a boy, was fresh to me,

vocalized for the first time. You realized that she was beginning that long story, adequately, with the end in

view. Every phrase she sang was basic. She simply WAS the idea of the Rhine music." Ottenburg rose and

stood with his back to the fire. "And at the end, where you don't see the maidens at all, the same thing again:

two pretty voices AND the Rhine voice." Fred snapped his fingers and dropped his hand.

The doctor looked up at him enviously. "You see, all that would be lost on me," he said modestly. "I don't

know the dream nor the interpretation thereof. I'm out of it. It's too bad that so few of her old friends can

"Take a try at it," Fred encouraged him. "You'll get in deeper than you can explain to yourself. People with

"I suppose," said Archie diffidently, "that college Ger man, gone to seed, wouldn't help me out much. I used

"Sure it would!" cried Ottenburg heartily. "Don't be above knowing your libretto. That's all very well for

musicians, but common mortals like you and me have got to know what she's singing about. Get out your

dictionary and go at it as you would at any other proposition. Her diction is beautiful, and if you know the

text you'll get a great deal. So long as you're going to hear her, get all that's coming to you. You bet in

Germany people know their librettos by heart! You Americans are so afraid of stooping to learn anything."

"I AM a little ashamed," Archie admitted. "I guess that's the way we mask our general ignorance. However,

I'll stoop this time; I'm more ashamed not to be able to follow her. The papers always say she's such a fine

ac tress." He took up the tongs and began to rearrange the logs that had burned through and fallen apart. "I

"We've all changed, my dear Archie,she more than most of us. Yes, and no. She's all there, only there's a

great deal more of her. I've had only a few words with her in several years. It's better not, when I'm tied up

"Absolutely. Hasn't been out of a sanitarium for seven years now. No prospect of her ever being out, and as

long as she's there I'm tied hand and foot. What does society get out of such a state of things, I'd like to know,

except a tangle of irregularities? If you want to reform, there's an opening for you!"

"It's bad, oh, very bad; I agree with you!" Dr. Archie shook his head. "But there would be complications

under another system, too. The whole question of a young man's marrying has looked pretty grave to me for a

long while. How have they the courage to keep on doing it? It de presses me now to buy wedding presents."

For some time the doctor watched his guest, who was sunk in bitter reflec tions. "Such things used to go

better than they do now, I believe. Seems to me all the married people I knew when I was a boy were happy

enough." He paused again and bit the end off a fresh cigar. "You never saw Thea's mother, did you,

Ottenburg? That's a pity. Mrs. Kronborg was a fine woman. I've always been afraid Thea made a mistake, not

Ottenburg moved about restlessly. "She couldn't, Archie, she positively couldn't. I felt you never under

stood that, but I was in Dresden at the time, and though I wasn't seeing much of her, I could size up the

situation for myself. It was by just a lucky chance that she got to sing ELIZABETH that time at the Dresden

Opera, a complica tion of circumstances. If she'd run away, for any reason, she might have waited years for

such a chance to come again. She gave a wonderful performance and made a great impression. They offered

her certain terms; she had to take them and follow it up then and there. In that game you can't lose a single

trick. She was ill herself, but she sang. Her mother was ill, and she sang. No, you mustn't hold that against

her, Archie. She did the right thing there." Ottenburg drew out his watch. "Hello! I must be traveling. You

"More or less regularly. She was never much of a letter writer. She tells me about her engagements and

contracts, but I know so little about that business that it doesn't mean much to me beyond the figures, which

seem very impressive. We've had a good deal of business correspond ence, about putting up a stone to her

father and mother, and, lately, about her youngest brother, Thor. He is with me now; he drives my car.

Ottenburg, who had picked up his overcoat, dropped it. "Drives your car?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes. Thea and I have had a good deal of bother about Thor. We tried a business college, and an engineering

school, but it was no good. Thor was born a chauffeur before there were cars to drive. He was never good for

any thing else; lay around home and collected postage stamps and took bicycles to pieces, waiting for the

automobile to be invented. He's just as much a part of a car as the steer inggear. I can't find out whether he

likes his job with me or not, or whether he feels any curiosity about his sister. You can't find anything out

Fred plunged into his coat. "Well, it's a queer world, Archie. But you'll think better of it, if you go to New

York. Wish I were going with you. I'll drop in on you in the morning at about eleven. I want a word with you

Dr. Archie saw his guest to the motor which was waiting below, and then went back to his library, where he

replen ished the fire and sat down for a long smoke. A man of Archie's modest and rather credulous nature

develops late, and makes his largest gain between forty and fifty. At thirty, indeed, as we have seen, Archie

was a softhearted boy under a manly exterior, still whistling to keep up his courage. Prosperity and large

responsibilitiesabove all, getting free of poor Mrs. Archiehad brought out a good deal more than he

knew was in him. He was thinking to night as he sat before the fire, in the comfort he liked so well, that but

for lucky chances, and lucky holes in the ground, he would still be a country practitioner, reading his old

books by his office lamp. And yet, he was not so fresh and energetic as he ought to be. He was tired of

business and of politics. Worse than that, he was tired of the men with whom he had to do and of the women

who, as he said, had been kind to him. He felt as if he were still hunting for something, like old Jasper Flight.

He knew that this was an unbecoming and ungrateful state of mind, and he reproached himself for it. But he

could not help wondering why it was that life, even when it gave so much, after all gave so little. What was it

that he had expected and missed? Why was he, more than he was anything else, disappointed?

He fell to looking back over his life and asking himself which years of it he would like to live over

again,just as they had been,and they were not many. His college years he would live again, gladly. After

them there was nothing he would care to repeat until he came to Thea Kronborg. There had been something

stirring about those years in Moonstone, when he was a restless young man on the verge of breaking into

larger enterprises, and when she was a restless child on the verge of growing up into some thing unknown.

He realized now that she had counted for a great deal more to him than he knew at the time. It was a

continuous sort of relationship. He was always on the lookout for her as he went about the town, always

vaguely expecting her as he sat in his office at night. He had never asked himself then if it was strange that he

should find a child of twelve the most interesting and companionable person in Moonstone. It had seemed a

pleasant, natural kind of solicitude. He explained it then by the fact that he had no children of his own. But

now, as he looked back at those years, the other interests were faded and inani mate. The thought of them

was heavy. But wherever his life had touched Thea Kronborg's, there was still a little warmth left, a little

sparkle. Their friendship seemed to run over those discontented years like a leafy pattern, still bright and

fresh when the other patterns had faded into the dull background. Their walks and drives and confi dences,

the night they watched the rabbit in the moon light,why were these things stirring to remember?

Whenever he thought of them, they were distinctly dif ferent from the other memories of his life; always

seemed humorous, gay, with a little thrill of anticipation and mys tery about them. They came nearer to

being tender secrets than any others he possessed. Nearer than anything else they corresponded to what he

had hoped to find in the world, and had not found. It came over him now that the unexpected favors of

fortune, no matter how dazzling, do not mean very much to us. They may excite or divert us for a time, but

when we look back, the only things we cher ish are those which in some way met our original want; the

FOR the first four years after Thea went to Germany things went on as usual with the Kronborg family. Mrs.

Kronborg's land in Nebraska increased in value and brought her in a good rental. The family drifted into an

easier way of living, half without realizing it, as families will. Then Mr. Kronborg, who had never been ill,

died sud denly of cancer of the liver, and after his death Mrs. Kronborg went, as her neighbors said, into a

decline. Hearing discouraging reports of her from the physician who had taken over his practice, Dr. Archie

went up from Denver to see her. He found her in bed, in the room where he had more than once attended her,

a handsome woman of sixty with a body still firm and white, her hair, faded now to a very pale primrose, in

two thick braids down her back, her eyes clear and calm. When the doctor arrived, she was sitting up in her

bed, knitting. He felt at once how glad she was to see him, but he soon gathered that she had made no

determination to get well. She told him, indeed, that she could not very well get along without Mr. Kron

borg. The doctor looked at her with astonishment. Was it possible that she could miss the foolish old man so

"Yes," she replied; "the children are all very well, but they are not father. We were married young."

The doctor watched her wonderingly as she went on knitting, thinking how much she looked like Thea. The

difference was one of degree rather than of kind. The daughter had a compelling enthusiasm, the mother had

In a moment Mrs. Kronborg spoke again. "Have you heard anything from Thea lately?"

During his talk with her, the doctor gathered that what Mrs. Kronborg really wanted was to see her daughter

Thea. Lying there day after day, she wanted it calmly and con tinuously. He told her that, since she felt so,

"I've thought a good deal about it," said Mrs. Kronborg slowly. "I hate to interrupt her, now that she's begun

to get advancement. I expect she's seen some pretty hard times, though she was never one to complain.

Perhaps she'd feel that she would like to come. It would be hard, losing both of us while she's off there."

When Dr. Archie got back to Denver he wrote a long letter to Thea, explaining her mother's condition and

how much she wished to see her, and asking Thea to come, if only for a few weeks. Thea had repaid the

money she had borrowed from him, and he assured her that if she hap pened to be short of funds for the

A month later he got a frantic sort of reply from Thea. Complications in the opera at Dresden had given her

an unhopedfor opportunity to go on in a big part. Before this letter reached the doctor, she would have made

her debut as ELIZABETH, in "Tannhauser." She wanted to go to her mother more than she wanted anything

else in the world, but, unless she failed,which she would not,she abso lutely could not leave Dresden

for six months. It was not that she chose to stay; she had to stayor lose every thing. The next few months

would put her five years ahead, or would put her back so far that it would be of no use to struggle further. As

soon as she was free, she would go to Moonstone and take her mother back to Germany with her. Her mother,

she was sure, could live for years yet, and she would like German people and German ways, and could be

hearing music all the time. Thea said she was writing her mother and begging her to help her one last time; to

get strength and to wait for her six months, and then she (Thea) would do everything. Her mother would

Dr. Archie went up to Moonstone at once. He had great confidence in Mrs. Kronborg's power of will, and if

Thea's appeal took hold of her enough, he believed she might get better. But when he was shown into the

familiar room off the parlor, his heart sank. Mrs. Kronborg was lying serene and fateful on her pillows. On

the dresser at the foot of her bed there was a large photograph of Thea in the character in which she was to

"Isn't she lovely, doctor? It's nice that she hasn't changed much. I've seen her look like that many a time."

They talked for a while about Thea's good fortune. Mrs. Kronborg had had a cablegram saying, "First

performance well received. Great relief." In her letter Thea said; "If you'll only get better, dear mother, there's

nothing I can't do. I will make a really great success, if you'll try with me. You shall have everything you

want, and we will always be together. I have a little house all picked out where we are to live."

"Bringing up a family is not all it's cracked up to be," said Mrs. Kronborg with a flicker of irony, as she

tucked the letter back under her pillow. "The children you don't especially need, you have always with you,

like the poor. But the bright ones get away from you. They have their own way to make in the world. Seems

like the brighter they are, the farther they go. I used to feel sorry that you had no family, doctor, but maybe

"Thea's plan seems sound to me, Mrs. Kronborg. There's no reason I can see why you shouldn't pull up and

live for years yet, under proper care. You'd have the best doctors in the world over there, and it would be

won derful to live with anybody who looks like that." He nodded at the photograph of the young woman

who must have been singing "DICH, THEURE HALLE, GRUSS' ICH WIEDER," her eyes looking up, her

Mrs. Kronborg laughed quite cheerfully. "Yes, would n't it? If father were here, I might rouse myself. But

sometimes it's hard to come back. Or if she were in trouble, maybe I could rouse myself."

"But, dear Mrs. Kronborg, she is in trouble," her old friend expostulated. "As she says, she's never needed

you as she needs you now. I make my guess that she's never begged anybody to help her before."

Mrs. Kronborg smiled. "Yes, it's pretty of her. But that will pass. When these things happen far away they

don't make such a mark; especially if your hands are full and you've duties of your own to think about. My

own father died in Nebraska when Gunner was born,we were living in Iowa then,and I was sorry, but

the baby made it up to me. I was father's favorite, too. That's the way it goes, you see."

The doctor took out Thea's letter to him, and read it over to Mrs. Kronborg. She seemed to listen, and not to

When he finished, she said thoughtfully: "I'd counted on hearing her sing again. But I always took my

pleasures as they come. I always enjoyed her singing when she was here about the house. While she was

practicing I often used to leave my work and sit down in a rocker and give myself up to it, the same as if I'd

been at an entertainment. I was never one of these housekeepers that let their work drive them to death. And

when she had the Mexicans over here, I always took it in. First and last,"she glanced judicially at the

photograph,"I guess I got about as much out of Thea's voice as anybody will ever get."

"I guess you did!" the doctor assented heartily; "and I got a good deal myself. You remember how she used to

"`Flow Gently, Sweet Afton,'I can hear it now," said Mrs. Kronborg; "and poor father never knew when he

sang sharp! He used to say, `Mother, how do you always know when they make mistakes practicing?'" Mrs.

Dr. Archie took her hand, still firm like the hand of a young woman. "It was lucky for her that you did know.

"Except Wunsch; he was a real musician," said Mrs. Kronborg respectfully. "I gave her what chance I could,

in a crowded house. I kept the other children out of the parlor for her. That was about all I could do. If she

wasn't disturbed, she needed no watching. She went after it like a terrier after rats from the first, poor child.

She was down right afraid of it. That's why I always encouraged her taking Thor off to outlandish places.

After they had recalled many pleasant memories to gether, Mrs. Kronborg said suddenly: "I always under

stood about her going off without coming to see us that time. Oh, I know! You had to keep your own counsel.

You were a good friend to her. I've never forgot that." She patted the doctor's sleeve and went on absently.

"There was something she didn't want to tell me, and that's why she didn't come. Something happened when

she was with those people in Mexico. I worried for a good while, but I guess she's come out of it all right.

She'd had a pretty hard time, scratching along alone like that when she was so young, and my farms in

Nebraska were down so low that I couldn't help her none. That's no way to send a girl out. But I guess,

whatever there was, she wouldn't be afraid to tell me now." Mrs. Kronborg looked up at the photograph with

"She isn't, Mrs. Kronborg. She never has been. That was why she borrowed the money from me."

"Oh, I knew she'd never have sent for you if she'd done anything to shame us. She was always proud." Mrs.

Kronborg paused and turned a little on her side. "It's been quite a satisfaction to you and me, doctor, having

her voice turn out so fine. The things you hope for don't always turn out like that, by a long sight. As long as

old Mrs. Kohler lived, she used always to translate what it said about Thea in the German papers she sent. I

could make some of it out myself,it's not very different from Swedish,but it pleased the old lady. She

left Thea her piecepicture of the burning of Moscow. I've got it put away in mothballs for her, along with

the oboe her grand father brought from Sweden. I want her to take father's oboe back there some day." Mrs.

Kronborg paused a moment and compressed her lips. "But I guess she'll take a finer instrument than that with

Her tone fairly startled the doctor, it was so vibrating with a fierce, defiant kind of pride he had heard often in

Thea's voice. He looked down wonderingly at his old friend and patient. After all, one never knew people to

the core. Did she, within her, hide some of that still passion of which her daughter was allcompact?

"That last summer at home wasn't very nice for her," Mrs. Kronborg began as placidly as if the fire had never

leaped up in her. "The other children were actingup because they thought I might make a fuss over her and

give her the bighead. We gave her the dare, somehow, the lot of us, because we couldn't understand her

changing teachers and all that. That's the trouble about giving the dare to them quiet, unboastful children; you

never know how far it'll take 'em. Well, we ought not to complain, doctor; she's given us a good deal to think

The next time Dr. Archie came to Moonstone, he came to be a pallbearer at Mrs. Kronborg's funeral. When

he last looked at her, she was so serene and queenly that he went back to Denver feeling almost as if he had

helped to bury Thea Kronborg herself. The handsome head in the coffin seemed to him much more really

Thea than did the radiant young woman in the picture, looking about at the Gothic vaultings and greeting the

ONE bright morning late in February Dr. Archie was breakfasting comfortably at the Waldorf. He had got

into Jersey City on an early train, and a red, windy sunrise over the North River had given him a good

appetite. He consulted the morning paper while he drank his coffee and saw that "Lohengrin" was to be sung

at the opera that evening. In the list of the artists who would appear was the name "Kronborg." Such

abruptness rather startled him. "Kronborg": it was impressive and yet, somehow, disrespectful; somewhat

rude and brazen, on the back page of the morning paper. After breakfast he went to the hotel ticket office and

asked the girl if she could give him some thing for "Lohengrin," "near the front." His manner was a trifle

awkward and he wondered whether the girl noticed it. Even if she did, of course, she could scarcely suspect.

Before the ticket stand he saw a bunch of blue posters announcing the opera casts for the week. There was

That looked better. The girl gave him a ticket for a seat which she said was excellent. He paid for it and went

out to the cabstand. He mentioned to the driver a number on Riverside Drive and got into a taxi. It would not,

of course, be the right thing to call upon Thea when she was going to sing in the evening. He knew that much,

thank goodness! Fred Ottenburg had hinted to him that, more than almost anything else, that would put one in

When he reached the number to which he directed his letters, he dismissed the cab and got out for a walk.

The house in which Thea lived was as impersonal as the Waldorf, and quite as large. It was above 116th

Street, where the Drive narrows, and in front of it the shelving bank dropped to the North River. As Archie

strolled about the paths which traversed this slope, below the street level, the fourteen stories of the apartment

hotel rose above him like a perpendicular cliff. He had no idea on which floor Thea lived, but he reflected, as

his eye ran over the many windows, that the outlook would be fine from any floor. The forbidding hugeness

of the house made him feel as if he had expected to meet Thea in a crowd and had missed her. He did not

really believe that she was hidden away behind any of those glittering windows, or that he was to hear her

this evening. His walk was curiously uninspiring and unsuggestive. Presently remembering that Ottenburg

had encouraged him to study his lesson, he went down to the opera house and bought a libretto. He had even

brought his old "Adler's German and English" in his trunk, and after luncheon he settled down in his gilded

The opera was announced for sevenfortyfive, but at halfpast seven Archie took his seat in the right front

of the orchestra circle. He had never been inside the Metropoli tan Opera House before, and the height of

the audience room, the rich color, and the sweep of the balconies were not without their effect upon him. He

watched the house fill with a growing feeling of expectation. When the steel curtain rose and the men of the

orchestra took their places, he felt distinctly nervous. The burst of applause which greeted the conductor

keyed him still higher. He found that he had taken off his gloves and twisted them to a string. When the lights

went down and the violins began the overture, the place looked larger than ever; a great pit, shadowy and

solemn. The whole atmosphere, he reflected, was somehow more serious than he had anticipated.

After the curtains were drawn back upon the scene beside the Scheldt, he got readily into the swing of the

story. He was so much interested in the bass who sang KING HENRY that he had almost forgotten for what

he was waiting so nervously, when the HERALD began in stentorian tones to summon ELSA VON

BRABANT. Then he began to realize that he was rather frightened. There was a flutter of white at the back

of the stage, and women began to come in: two, four, six, eight, but not the right one. It flashed across him

that this was something like buckfever, the paralyz ing moment that comes upon a man when his first elk

looks at him through the bushes, under its great antlers; the moment when a man's mind is so full of shooting

that he forgets the gun in his hand until the buck nods adieu to him from a distant hill.

All at once, before the buck had left him, she was there. Yes, unquestionably it was she. Her eyes were

downcast, but the head, the cheeks, the chinthere could be no mistake; she advanced slowly, as if she were

walking in her sleep. Some one spoke to her; she only inclined her head. He spoke again, and she bowed her

head still lower. Archie had forgotten his libretto, and he had not counted upon these long pauses. He had

expected her to appear and sing and reassure him. They seemed to be waiting for her. Did she ever forget?

Why in thunder didn't she She made a sound, a faint one. The people on the stage whispered together and

seemed confounded. His nervous ness was absurd. She must have done this often before; she knew her

bearings. She made another sound, but he could make nothing of it. Then the King sang to her, and Archie

began to remember where they were in the story. She came to the front of the stage, lifted her eyes for the

Yes, it was exactly like buckfever. Her face was there, toward the house now, before his eyes, and he

positively could not see it. She was singing, at last, and he positively could not hear her. He was conscious of

nothing but an uncomfortable dread and a sense of crushing disappoint ment. He had, after all, missed her.

The King interrupted her. She began again, "IN LICHTER WAFFEN SCHEINE." Archie did not know when

his buck fever passed, but presently he found that he was sitting quietly in a darkened house, not listening to

but dreaming upon a river of silver sound. He felt apart from the others, drifting alone on the melody, as if he

had been alone with it for a long while and had known it all before. His power of attention was not great just

then, but in so far as it went he seemed to be looking through an exalted calmness at a beautiful woman from

far away, from another sort of life and feeling and understanding than his own, who had in her face

something he had known long ago, much brightened and beautified. As a lad he used to believe that the faces

of people who died were like that in the next world; the same faces, but shining with the light of a new

What he felt was admiration and estrangement. The homely reunion, that he had somehow expected, now

seemed foolish. Instead of feeling proud that he knew her better than all these people about him, he felt

chagrined at his own ingenuousness. For he did not know her better. This woman he had never known; she

had somehow de voured his little friend, as the wolf ate up Red Ridinghood. Beautiful, radiant, tender as she

was, she chilled his old affection; that sort of feeling was not appropriate. She seemed much, much farther

away from him than she had seemed all those years when she was in Germany. The ocean he could cross, but

there was something here he could not cross. There was a moment, when she turned to the King and smiled

that rare, sunrise smile of her child hood, when he thought she was coming back to him. After the

HERALD'S second call for her champion, when she knelt in her impassioned prayer, there was again

something familiar, a kind of wild wonder that she had had the power to call up long ago. But she merely

After the tenor came on, the doctor ceased trying to make the woman before him fit into any of his cherished

recollections. He took her, in so far as he could, for what she was then and there. When the knight raised the

kneeling girl and put his mailed hand on her hair, when she lifted to him a face full of worship and passionate

humility, Archie gave up his last reservation. He knew no more about her than did the hundreds around him,

who sat in the shadow and looked on, as he looked, some with more understanding, some with less. He knew

as much about ORTRUDE or LOHENGRIN as he knew about ELSAmore, be cause she went further

than they, she sustained the leg endary beauty of her conception more consistently. Even he could see that.

Attitudes, movements, her face, her white arms and fingers, everything was suffused with a rosy tenderness, a

During the balcony singing in the second act the doctor's thoughts were as far away from Moonstone as the

singer's doubtless were. He had begun, indeed, to feel the exhila ration of getting free from personalities, of

being released from his own past as well as from Thea Kronborg's. It was very much, he told himself, like a

military funeral, exalting and impersonal. Something old died in one, and out of it something new was born.

During the duet with ORTRUDE, and the splendors of the wedding processional, this new feeling grew and

grew. At the end of the act there were many curtain calls and ELSA acknowledged them, brilliant, gracious,

spirited, with her farbreaking smile; but on the whole she was harder and more selfcontained before the

curtain than she was in the scene behind it. Archie did his part in the applause that greeted her, but it was the

new and wonderful he applauded, not the old and dear. His personal, proprietary pride in her was frozen out.

He walked about the house during the ENTR'ACTE, and here and there among the people in the foyer he

caught the name "Kronborg." On the staircase, in front of the coffee room, a longhaired youth with a fat

face was discoursing to a group of old women about "die Kronborg." Dr. Archie gathered that he had crossed

After the performance was over, Archie took a taxi and started for Riverside Drive. He meant to see it

through tonight. When he entered the reception hall of the hotel before which he had strolled that morning,

the hall porter challenged him. He said he was waiting for Miss Kronborg. The porter looked at him

suspiciously and asked whether he had an appointment. He answered brazenly that he had. He was not used

to being questioned by hall boys. Archie sat first in one tapestry chair and then in another, keeping a sharp

eye on the people who came in and went up in the elevators. He walked about and looked at his watch. An

hour dragged by. No one had come in from the street now for about twenty minutes, when two women en

tered, carrying a great many flowers and followed by a tall young man in chauffeur's uniform. Archie

advanced to ward the taller of the two women, who was veiled and carried her head very firmly. He

confronted her just as she reached the elevator. Although he did not stand di rectly in her way, something in

his attitude compelled her to stop. She gave him a piercing, defiant glance through the white scarf that

covered her face. Then she lifted her hand and brushed the scarf back from her head. There was still black on

her brows and lashes. She was very pale and her face was drawn and deeply lined. She looked, the doctor told

himself with a sinking heart, forty years old. Her suspicious, mystified stare cleared slowly.

"Pardon me," the doctor murmured, not knowing just how to address her here before the porters, "I came up

Without speaking, still looking incredulous, she pushed him into the elevator. She kept her hand on his arm

while the cage shot up, and she looked away from him, frowning, as if she were trying to remember or realize

something. When the cage stopped, she pushed him out of the elevator through another door, which a maid

opened, into a square hall. There she sank down on a chair and looked up at him.

Archie heard himself laughing the old, embarrassed laugh that seldom happened to him now. "Oh, I wanted

She took his hand through her thick glove and her head dropped forward. "Yes, it has been long," she said in

"And you are so tired, and I am a clumsy old fellow to break in on you tonight," the doctor added

sympathetic ally. "Forgive me, this time." He bent over and put his hand soothingly on her shoulder. He felt

Still bundled in her fur coat as she was, she threw both arms about him and hugged him. "Oh, Dr. Archie,

DR. ARCHIE,"she shook him,"don't let me go. Hold on, now you're here," she laughed, breaking away

from him at the same moment and sliding out of her fur coat. She left it for the maid to pick up and pushed

the doctor into the sittingroom, where she turned on the lights. "Let me LOOK at you. Yes; hands, feet,

head, shouldersjust the same. You've grown no older. You can't say as much for me, can you?"

She was standing in the middle of the room, in a white silk shirtwaist and a short black velvet skirt, which

some how suggested that they had `cut off her petticoats all round about.' She looked distinctly clipped and

plucked. Her hair was parted in the middle and done very close to her head, as she had worn it under the wig.

She looked like a fugitive, who had escaped from something in clothes caught up at hazard. It flashed across

Dr. Archie that she was running away from the other woman down at the opera house, who had used her

He took a step toward her. "I can't tell a thing in the world about you, Theaif I may still call you that."

She took hold of the collar of his overcoat. "Yes, call me that. Do: I like to hear it. You frighten me a little,

but I expect I frighten you more. I'm always a scarecrow after I sing a long part like thatso high, too." She

absently pulled out the handkerchief that protruded from his breast pocket and began to wipe the black paint

off her eyebrows and lashes. "I can't take you in much tonight, but I must see you for a little while." She

pushed him to a chair. "I shall be more recognizable tomorrow. You mustn't think of me as you see me

tonight. Come at four tomorrow afternoon and have tea with me. Can you? That's good."

She sat down in a low chair beside him and leaned for ward, drawing her shoulders together. She seemed to

him inappropriately young and inappropriately old, shorn of her long tresses at one end and of her long robes

"How do you happen to be here?" she asked abruptly. "How can you leave a silver mine? I couldn't! Sure

nobody'll cheat you? But you can explain everything to morrow." She paused. "You remember how you

sewed me up in a poultice, once? I wish you could tonight. I need a poultice, from top to toe. Something

very disagree able happened down there. You said you were out front? Oh, don't say anything about it. I

always know exactly how it goes, unfortunately. I was rotten in the balcony. I never get that. You didn't

Here the maid appeared at the door and her mistress rose. "My supper? Very well, I'll come. I'd ask you to

stay, doctor, but there wouldn't be enough for two. They seldom send up enough for one,"she spoke

bitterly. "I haven't got a sense of you yet,"turning directly to Archie again. "You haven't been here. You've

only an nounced yourself, and told me you are coming tomorrow. You haven't seen me, either. This is not

I. But I'll be here waiting for you tomorrow, my whole works! Good night, till then." She patted him

WHEN Archie got back to his hotel at two o'clock in the morning, he found Fred Ottenburg's card under his

door, with a message scribbled across the top: "When you come in, please call up room 811, this hotel." A

"That you, Archie? Won't you come up? I'm having some supper and I'd like company. Late? What does that

Archie dropped his overcoat and set out for room 811. He found Ottenburg in the act of touching a match to a

chafingdish, at a table laid for two in his sittingroom. "I'm catering here," he announced cheerfully. "I let

the waiter off at midnight, after he'd set me up. You'll have to account for yourself, Archie."

The doctor laughed, pointing to three winecoolers under the table. "Are you expecting guests?"

"Yes, two." Ottenburg held up two fingers,"you, and my higher self. He's a thirsty boy, and I don't invite

him often. He has been known to give me a headache. Now, where have you been, Archie, until this shocking

"Bah, you've been banting!" the doctor exclaimed, pulling out his white gloves as he searched for his

handker chief and throwing them into a chair. Ottenburg was in evening clothes and very pointed dress

shoes. His white waistcoat, upon which the doctor had fixed a challenging eye, went down straight from the

top button, and he wore a camelia. He was conspicuously brushed and trimmed and polished. His smoothly

controlled excitement was wholly different from his usual easy cordiality, though he had his face, as well as

his figure, well in hand. On the servingtable there was an empty champagne pint and a glass. He had been

having a little starter, the doctor told himself, and would probably be running on high gear before he got

"Been, Freddy?"the doctor at last took up his ques tion. "I expect I've been exactly where you have. Why

"I wasn't, Archie." Fred lifted the cover of the chafing dish and stirred the contents. He stood behind the

table, holding the lid with his handkerchief. "I had never thought of such a thing. But Landry, a young chap

who plays her accompaniments and who keeps an eye out for me, tele graphed me that Madame Rheinecker

had gone to Atlantic City with a bad throat, and Thea might have a chance to sing ELSA. She has sung it only

twice here before, and I missed it in Dresden. So I came on. I got in at four this afternoon and saw you

registered, but I thought I would n't butt in. How lucky you got here just when she was coming on for this.

You couldn't have hit a better time." Ottenburg stirred the contents of the dish faster and put in more sherry.

Archie looked rather selfconscious, as he sat down on a fragile gilt chair that rocked under him, and

stretched out his long legs. "Well, if you'll believe me, I had the bru tality to go to see her. I wanted to

Ottenburg placed the cover quickly on the chafingdish and took a step backward. "You did, old sport? My

word! None but the brave deserve the fair. Well,"he stooped to turn the wine,"and how was she?"

"She seemed rather dazed, and pretty well used up. She seemed disappointed in herself, and said she hadn't

"Well, if she didn't, she's not the first. Beastly stuff to sing right in there; lies just on the `break' in the voice."

Fred pulled a bottle out of the ice and drew the cork. Lifting his glass he looked meaningly at Archie. "You

know who, doctor. Here goes!" He drank off his glass with a sigh of satisfaction. After he had turned the

lamp low under the chafingdish, he remained standing, looking pensively down at the food on the table.

"Well, she rather pulled it off! As a backer, you're a winner, Archie. I congratulate you." Fred poured himself

another glass. "Now you must eat something, and so must I. Here, get off that bird cage and find a steady

chair. This stuff ought to be rather good; head waiter's suggestion. Smells all right." He bent over the

chafingdish and began to serve the contents. "Perfectly innocuous: mushrooms and truf fles and a little

Archie turned a frank smile to his friend and shook his head. "It was all miles beyond me, of course, but it

gave me a pulse. The general excitement got hold of me, I sup pose. I like your wine, Freddy." He put down

his glass. "It goes to the spot tonight. She WAS all right, then? You weren't disappointed?"

"Disappointed? My dear Archie, that's the high voice we dream of; so pure and yet so virile and human. That

combination hardly ever happens with sopranos." Otten burg sat down and turned to the doctor, speaking

calmly and trying to dispel his friend's manifest bewilderment. "You see, Archie, there's the voice itself, so

beautiful and individual, and then there's something else; the thing in it which responds to every shade of

thought and feeling, spontaneously, almost unconsciously. That color has to be born in a singer, it can't be

acquired; lots of beautiful voices haven't a vestige of it. It's almost like another giftthe rarest of all. The

voice simply is the mind and is the heart. It can't go wrong in interpretation, because it has in it the thing that

makes all interpretation. That's why you feel so sure of her. After you've listened to her for an hour or so, you

aren't afraid of anything. All the little dreads you have with other artists vanish. You lean back and you say to

yourself, `No, THAT voice will never be tray.' TREULICH GEFUHRT, TREULICH BEWACHT."

Archie looked envyingly at Fred's excited, triumphant face. How satisfactory it must be, he thought, to really

know what she was doing and not to have to take it on hearsay. He took up his glass with a sigh. "I seem to

need a good deal of cooling off tonight. I'd just as lief forget the Reform Party for once.

"Yes, Fred," he went on seriously; "I thought it sounded very beautiful, and I thought she was very beautiful,

"Wasn't she? Every attitude a picture, and always the right kind of picture, full of that legendary, supernatural

thing she gets into it. I never heard the prayer sung like that before. That look that came in her eyes; it went

right out through the back of the roof. Of course, you get an ELSA who can look through walls like that, and

visions and Grailknights happen naturally. She becomes an abbess, that girl, after LOHENGRIN leaves her.

She's made to live with ideas and enthusiasms, not with a husband." Fred folded his arms, leaned back in his

Fred smiled, reaching under the table. "Some ELSAS do; she didn't. She left me with the distinct impression

that she was just beginning. Now, doctor, here's a cold one." He twirled a napkin smoothly about the green

glass, the cork gave and slipped out with a soft explosion. "And now we must have another toast. It's up to

The doctor watched the agitation in his glass. "The same," he said without lifting his eyes. "That's good

Fred leaned forward, and looked sharply into his face. "That's the point; how COULD you raise me? Once

"Once again, and always the same!" The doctor put down his glass. "This doesn't seem to produce any symp

toms in me tonight." He lit a cigar. "Seriously, Freddy, I wish I knew more about what she's driving at. It

"In it?" Fred started up. "My God, haven't you seen her this blessed night?when she'd have kicked any

other man down the elevator shaft, if I know her. Leave me something; at least what I can pay my five bucks

"Seems to me you get a good deal for your five bucks," said Archie ruefully. "And that, after all, is what she

Fred lit a cigarette, took a puff or two, and then threw it away. He was lounging back in his chair, and his face

was pale and drawn hard by that mood of intense concentration which lurks under the sunny shallows of the

vineyard. In his voice there was a longer perspective than usual, a slight remoteness. "You see, Archie, it's all

very simple, a natu ral development. It's exactly what Mahler said back there in the beginning, when she

sang WOGLINDE. It's the idea, the basic idea, pulsing behind every bar she sings. She simplifies a character

down to the musical idea it's built on, and makes everything conform to that. The people who chatter about

her being a great actress don't seem to get the notion of where SHE gets the notion. It all goes back to her

original endowment, her tremendous musical talent. Instead of inventing a lot of business and expedients to

suggest character, she knows the thing at the root, and lets the musical pattern take care of her. The score

pours her into all those lovely postures, makes the light and shadow go over her face, lifts her and drops her.

The doctor frowned dubiously as a third bottle made its appearance above the cloth. "Aren't you going in

Fred laughed. "No, I'm becoming too sober. You see this is breakfast now; kind of wedding breakfast. I feel

rather weddingish. I don't mind. You know," he went on as the wine gurgled out, "I was thinking tonight

when they sprung the wedding music, how any fool can have that stuff played over him when he walks up the

aisle with some doughfaced little hussy who's hooked him. But it isn't every fellow who can seewell,

what we saw to night. There are compensations in life, Dr. Howard Archie, though they come in disguise.

Did you notice her when she came down the stairs? Wonder where she gets that bright andmorning star

look? Carries to the last row of the family circle. I moved about all over the house. I'll tell you a secret,

Archie: that carrying power was one of the first things that put me wise. Noticed it down there in Arizona, in

the open. That, I said, belongs only to the big ones." Fred got up and began to move rhythmically about the

room, his hands in his pockets. The doctor was aston ished at his ease and steadiness, for there were slight

lapses in his speech. "You see, Archie, ELSA isn't a part that's particularly suited to Thea's voice at all, as I

see her voice. It's overlyrical for her. She makes it, but there's nothing in it that fits her like a glove, except,

maybe, that long duet in the third act. There, of course,"he held out his hands as if he were measuring

something,"we know exactly where we are. But wait until they give her a chance at something that lies

Archie smoothed the tablecloth with his hand. "I am sure I don't want to see you any rosier, Fred."

Ottenburg threw back his head and laughed. "It's en thusiasm, doctor. It's not the wine. I've got as much in

flated as this for a dozen trashy things: brewers' dinners and political orgies. You, too, have your

extravagances, Archie. And what I like best in you is this particular enthusiasm, which is not at all practical

or sensible, which is downright Quixotic. You are not altogether what you seem, and you have your

reservations. Living among the wolves, you have not become one. LUPIBUS VIVENDI NON LUPUS

The doctor seemed embarrassed. "I was just thinking how tired she looked, plucked of all her fine feathers,

while we get all the fun. Instead of sitting here carousing, we ought to go solemnly to bed."

"I get your idea." Ottenburg crossed to the window and threw it open. "Fine night outside; a hag of a moon

just setting. It begins to smell like morning. After all, Archie, think of the lonely and rather solemn hours

Archie lifted his brows. "I somehow didn't get the idea tonight that she revels much."

"I don't mean this sort of thing." Fred turned toward the light and stood with his back to the window. "That,"

with a nod toward the winecooler, "is only a cheap imita tion, that any poor stifffingered fool can buy and

feel his shell grow thinner. But take it from me, no matter what she pays, or how much she may see fit to lie

about it, the real, the master revel is hers." He leaned back against the window sill and crossed his arms.

"Anybody with all that voice and all that talent and all that beauty, has her hour. Her hour," he went on

He stood silent a moment, twisting the flower from his coat by the stem and staring at the blank wall with

Now, doctor, you may leave me. I'm beautifully drunk, but not with anything that ever grew in France."

The doctor rose. Fred tossed his flower out of the win dow behind him and came toward the door. "I say,"

The doctor paused, his hand on the knob. "With Thea, you mean? Yes. I'm to go to her at four this

"Well, you won't eat me, will you, if I break in and send up my card? She'll probably turn me down cold, but

that won't hurt my feelings. If she ducks me, you tell her for me, that to spite me now she'd have to cut off

IT was late on the morning after the night she sang ELSA, when Thea Kronborg stirred uneasily in her bed.

The room was darkened by two sets of window shades, and the day outside was thick and cloudy. She turned

and tried to recapture unconsciousness, knowing that she would not be able to do so. She dreaded waking

stale and disap pointed after a great effort. The first thing that came was always the sense of the futility of

such endeavor, and of the absurdity of trying too hard. Up to a certain point, say eighty degrees, artistic

endeavor could be fat and comfortable, methodical and prudent. But if you went further than that, if you drew

yourself up toward ninety degrees, you parted with your defenses and left yourself exposed to mischance.

The legend was that in those upper reaches you might be divine; but you were much likelier to be ridiculous.

Your public wanted just about eighty degrees; if you gave it more it blew its nose and put a crimp in you. In

the morning, especially, it seemed to her very probable that whatever struggled above the good average was

not quite sound. Certainly very little of that superfluous ardor, which cost so dear, ever got across the

footlights. These misgivings waited to pounce upon her when she wakened. They hovered about her bed like

She reached under her pillow for her handkerchief, with out opening her eyes. She had a shadowy memory

that there was to be something unusual, that this day held more disquieting possibilities than days commonly

held. There was something she dreaded; what was it? Oh, yes, Dr. Archie was to come at four.

A reality like Dr. Archie, poking up out of the past, re minded one of disappointments and losses, of a

freedom that was no more: reminded her of blue, golden mornings long ago, when she used to waken with a

burst of joy at recovering her precious self and her precious world; when she never lay on her pillows at

eleven o'clock like some thing the waves had washed up. After all, why had he come? It had been so long,

and so much had happened. The things she had lost, he would miss readily enough. What she had gained, he

would scarcely perceive. He, and all that he recalled, lived for her as memories. In sleep, and in hours of

illness or exhaustion, she went back to them and held them to her heart. But they were better as memories.

They had nothing to do with the struggle that made up her actual life. She felt drearily that she was not

flexible enough to be the person her old friend expected her to be, the person she herself wished to be with

Thea reached for the bell and rang twice,a signal to her maid to order her breakfast. She rose and ran up

the window shades and turned on the water in her bathroom, glancing into the mirror apprehensively as she

passed it. Her bath usually cheered her, even on low mornings like this. Her white bathroom, almost as large

as her sleeping room, she regarded as a refuge. When she turned the key behind her, she left care and

vexation on the other side of the door. Neither her maid nor the management nor her letters nor her

When she pinned her braids about her head, dropped her nightgown and stepped out to begin her Swedish

move ments, she was a natural creature again, and it was so that she liked herself best. She slid into the tub

with anticipa tion and splashed and tumbled about a good deal. What ever else she hurried, she never

hurried her bath. She used her brushes and sponges and soaps like toys, fairly playing in the water. Her own

body was always a cheer ing sight to her. When she was careworn, when her mind felt old and tired, the

freshness of her physical self, her long, firm lines, the smoothness of her skin, reassured her. This morning,

because of awakened memories, she looked at herself more carefully than usual, and was not discour aged.

While she was in the tub she began to whistle softly the tenor aria, "AH! FUYEZ, DOUCE IMAGE,"

somehow appropriate to the bath. After a noisy moment under the cold shower, she stepped out on the rug

flushed and glow ing, threw her arms above her head, and rose on her toes, keeping the elevation as long as

she could. When she dropped back on her heels and began to rub herself with the towels, she took up the aria

again, and felt quite in the humor for seeing Dr. Archie. After she had returned to her bed, the maid brought

"Telephone Mr. Landry and ask him if he can come at halfpast three, Theresa, and order tea to be brought

When Howard Archie was admitted to Thea's apart ment that afternoon, he was shown into the musicroom

back of the little reception room. Thea was sitting in a davenport behind the piano, talking to a young man

whom she later introduced as her friend Mr. Landry. As she rose, and came to meet him, Archie felt a deep

relief, a sudden thankfulness. She no longer looked clipped and plucked, or dazed and fleeing.

Dr. Archie neglected to take account of the young man to whom he was presented. He kept Thea's hands and

held her where he met her, taking in the light, lively sweep of her hair, her clear green eyes and her throat that

came up strong and dazzlingly white from her green velvet gown. The chin was as lovely as ever, the cheeks

as smooth. All the lines of last night had disappeared. Only at the outer corners of her eyes, between the eye

and the temple, were the faintest indications of a future attackmere kitten scratches that playfully hinted

where one day the cat would claw her. He studied her without any embar rassment. Last night everything

had been awkward; but now, as he held her hands, a kind of harmony came between them, a reestablishment

She took his arm and led him up to the young man who was standing beside the piano. "Mr. Landry knows all

about you, Dr. Archie. He has known about you for many years." While the two men shook hands she stood

between them, drawing them together by her presence and her glances. "When I first went to Germany,

Landry was studying there. He used to be good enough to work with me when I could not afford to have an

accompanist for more than two hours a day. We got into the way of work ing together. He is a singer, too,

and has his own career to look after, but he still manages to give me some time. I want you to be friends." She

The rooms, Archie noticed, full of last night's flowers, were furnished in light colors, the hotel bleakness of

them a little softened by a magnificent Steinway piano, white bookshelves full of books and scores, some

"Very cordial, aren't they? They evidently did not expect as much as I did. ELSA is not really in my voice. I

"That is exactly," the doctor came out boldly, "what Fred Ottenburg said this morning."

They had remained standing, the three of them, by the piano, where the gray afternoon light was strongest.

Thea turned to the doctor with interest. "Is Fred in town? They were from him, thensome flowers that

came last night without a card." She indicated the white lilacs on the window sill. "Yes, he would know,

certainly," she said thoughtfully. "Why don't we sit down? There will be some tea for you in a minute,

Landry. He's very depend ent upon it," disapprovingly to Archie. "Now tell me, Doctor, did you really have

a good time last night, or were you uncomfortable? Did you feel as if I were trying to hold my hat on by my

He smiled. "I had all kinds of a time. But I had no feel ing of that sort. I couldn't be quite sure that it was

She leaned toward him and brushed his sleeve reassur ingly. "Then I didn't give you an impression of

painful struggle? Landry was singing at Weber and Fields' last night. He didn't get in until the performance

was half over. But I see the TRIBUNE man felt that I was working pretty hard. Did you see that notice,

Dr. Archie looked closely at the redheaded young man for the first time, and met his lively brown eyes, full

of a droll, confiding sort of humor. Mr. Landry was not pre possessing. He was undersized and clumsily

made, with a red, shiny face and a sharp little nose that looked as if it had been whittled out of wood and was

always in the air, on the scent of something. Yet it was this queer little beak, with his eyes, that made his

countenance anything of a face at all. From a distance he looked like the grocery man's delivery boy in a

small town. His dress seemed an acknowledgment of his grotesqueness: a short coat, like a little boys'

roundabout, and a vest fantastically sprigged and dotted, over a lavender shirt.

"May I answer the telephone for you?" He went to the writingtable and took up the receiver. "Mr. Ottenburg

is downstairs," he said, turning to Thea and holding the mouthpiece against his coat.

"Tell him to come up," she replied without hesitation. "How long are you going to be in town, Dr. Archie?"

"Oh, several weeks, if you'll let me stay. I won't hang around and be a burden to you, but I want to try to get

Thea rose and touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Well, you'll never be any younger, will you?"

The maid appeared at the door and announced Mr. Fred erick Ottenburg. Fred came in, very much got up,

the doctor reflected, as he watched him bending over Thea's hand. He was still pale and looked somewhat

chastened, and the lock of hair that hung down over his forehead was distinctly moist. But his black afternoon

coat, his gray tie and gaiters were of a correctness that Dr. Archie could never attain for all the efforts of his

faithful slave, Van Deusen, the Denver haberdasher. To be properly up to those tricks, the doctor supposed,

you had to learn them young. If he were to buy a silk hat that was the twin of Ottenburg's, it would be shaggy

Ottenburg had greeted Thea in German, and as she replied in the same language, Archie joined Mr. Landry at

Mr. Landry's eyes twinkled. "Yes, I regularly follow him about, when he's in town. I would, even if he didn't

Thea called to them, "Come, Mr. Ottenburg is calling on all of us. Here's the tea."

The maid opened the door and two waiters from down stairs appeared with covered trays. The teatable was

in the parlor. Thea drew Ottenburg with her and went to inspect it. "Where's the rum? Oh, yes, in that thing!

Everything seems to be here, but send up some currant preserves and cream cheese for Mr. Ottenburg. And in

For the next few minutes there was a clatter of teacups and responses about sugar. "Landry always takes rum.

I'm glad the rest of you don't. I'm sure it's bad." Thea poured the tea standing and got through with it as

quickly as possible, as if it were a refreshment snatched between trains. The teatable and the little room in

which it stood seemed to be out of scale with her long step, her long reach, and the energy of her movements.

Dr. Archie, standing near her, was pleasantly aware of the animation of her figure. Under the clinging velvet,

They drifted, with their plates and cups, back to the musicroom. When Thea followed them, Ottenburg put

down his tea suddenly. "Aren't you taking anything? Please let me." He started back to the table.

"No, thank you, nothing. I'm going to run over that aria for you presently, to convince you that I can do it.

She was standing in the doorway and Fred came up to her: "That you'll never do any better. You've worked

"Think so?" She gave him a sidelong glance and spoke with a certain gruff shyness which did not deceive

anybody, and was not meant to deceive. The tone was equivalent to "Keep it up. I like it, but I'm awkward

Fred held her by the door and did keep it up, furiously, for full five minutes. She took it with some confusion,

seem ing all the while to be hesitating, to be arrested in her course and trying to pass him. But she did not

really try to pass, and her color deepened. Fred spoke in German, and Archie caught from her an occasional

When they rejoined Landry and Dr. Archie, Fred took up his tea again. "I see you're singing VENUS

She shrugged her shoulders. "Not here. There are so many singers here, and they try us out in such a stingy

way. Think of it, last year I came over in October, and it was the first of December before I went on at all!

"Just so, and I've begun to sigh for those very limita tions. In New York everything is impersonal. Your

audi ence never knows its own mind, and its mind is never twice the same. I'd rather sing where the people

are pigheaded and throw carrots at you if you don't do it the way they like it. The house here is splendid, and

the night audi ences are exciting. I hate the matinees; like singing at a KAFFEKLATSCH." She rose and

"Ah!" Fred exclaimed, "why do you do that? That is a signal that tea is over." He got up and drew out his

"Not at all. Shall you be here Saturday night?" She sat down on the piano bench and leaned her elbow back

on the keyboard. "Necker sings ELIZABETH. Make Dr. Archie go. Everything she sings is worth hearing."

"But she's failing so. The last time I heard her she had no voice at all. She IS a poor vocalist!"

Thea cut him off. "She's a great artist, whether she's in voice or not, and she's the only one here. If you want a

big voice, you can take my ORTRUDE of last night; that's big enough, and vulgar enough."

Fred laughed and turned away, this time with decision. "I don't want her!" he protested energetically. "I only

wanted to get a rise out of you. I like Necker's ELIZABETH well enough. I like your VENUS well enough,

"It's a beautiful part, and it's often dreadfully sung. It's very hard to sing, of course."

Ottenburg bent over the hand she held out to him. "For an uninvited guest, I've fared very well. You were

nice to let me come up. I'd have been terribly cut up if you'd sent me away. May I?" He kissed her hand

lightly and backed toward the door, still smiling, and promising to keep an eye on Archie. "He can't be

trusted at all, Thea. One of the waiters at Martin's worked a Tourainian hare off on him at luncheon

Thea broke into a laugh, the deep one he recognized. "Did he have a ribbon on, this hare? Did they bring him

"No,"Archie spoke up for himself,"they brought him in a brown sauce, which was very good. He didn't

"Probably came from a pushcart on the East Side." Thea looked at her old friend commiseratingly. "Yes,

DO keep an eye on him, Fred. I had no idea," shaking her head. "Yes, I'll be obliged to you."

ON Saturday night Dr. Archie went with Fred Otten burg to hear "Tannhauser." Thea had a rehearsal on

Sunday afternoon, but as she was not on the bill again until Wednesday, she promised to dine with Archie

At a little after eight on Monday evening, the three friends returned to Thea's apartment and seated them

"I'm sorry we couldn't have had Landry with us to night," Thea said, "but he's on at Weber and Fields' every

night now. You ought to hear him, Dr. Archie. He often sings the old Scotch airs you used to love."

"Why not go down this evening?" Fred suggested hope fully, glancing at his watch. "That is, if you'd like to

Thea hesitated. "No, I think not. I took a long walk this afternoon and I'm rather tired. I think I can get to

sleep early and be so much ahead. I don't mean at once, however," seeing Dr. Archie's disappointed look. "I

al ways like to hear Landry," she added. "He never had much voice, and it's worn, but there's a sweetness

"Yes, doesn't he? May I?" Fred took out his cigarette case. "It really doesn't bother your throat?"

"A little doesn't. But cigar smoke does. Poor Dr. Archie! Can you do with one of those?"

"I'm learning to like them," the doctor declared, taking one from the case Fred proffered him.

"Landry's the only fellow I know in this country who can do that sort of thing," Fred went on. "Like the best

English ballad singers. He can sing even popular stuff by higher lights, as it were."

Thea nodded. "Yes; sometimes I make him sing his most foolish things for me. It's restful, as he does it.

"You knew him in Germany, Thea?" Dr. Archie had quietly abandoned his cigarette as a comfortless article.

"Yes. He was a good friend to a green girl. He helped me with my German and my music and my general

discourage ment. Seemed to care more about my getting on than about himself. He had no money, either.

Fred caught up the telephone and stopped the buzz while Thea went on talking to Dr. Archie about Landry.

Telling some one to hold the wire, he presently put down the instrument and approached Thea with a startled

"It's the management," he said quietly. "Gloeckler has broken down: fainting fits. Madame Rheinecker is in

At lantic City and Schramm is singing in Philadelphia to night. They want to know whether you can come

"Eight fiftyfive. The first act is just over. They can hold the curtain twentyfive minutes."

Thea did not move. "Twentyfive and thirtyfive makes sixty," she muttered. "Tell them I'll come if they

hold the curtain till I am in the dressingroom. Say I'll have to wear her costumes, and the dresser must have

Thea had not changed her position since he first inter rupted her, but she had grown pale and was opening

and shutting her hands rapidly. She looked, Fred thought, ter rified. He half turned toward the telephone, but

"No, but I've rehearsed it. That's all right. Get the cab." Still she made no move. She merely turned per

fectly blank eyes to Dr. Archie and said absently, "It's curious, but just at this minute I can't remember a bar

of 'Walkure' after the first act. And I let my maid go out." She sprang up and beckoned Archie without so

much, he felt sure, as knowing who he was. "Come with me." She went quickly into her sleepingchamber

and threw open a door into a trunkroom. "See that white trunk? It's not locked. It's full of wigs, in boxes.

Look until you find one marked `Ring 2.' Bring it quick!" While she directed him, she threw open a square

She threw him some white sandals with long laces and silk stockings pinned to them. "Put those in

something, and then go to the piano and give me a few measures in thereyou know." She was behaving

somewhat like a cyclone now, and while she wrenched open drawers and closet doors, Ottenburg got to the

piano as quickly as pos sible and began to herald the reappearance of the Volsung pair, trusting to memory.

In a few moments Thea came out enveloped in her long fur coat with a scarf over her head and knitted

woolen gloves on her hands. Her glassy eye took in the fact that Fred was playing from memory, and even in

her distracted state, a faint smile flickered over her colorless lips. She stretched out a woolly hand, "The

Dr. Archie followed with a canvas box and a satchel. As they went through the hall, the men caught up their

hats and coats. They left the musicroom, Fred noticed, just seven minutes after he got the telephone

message. In the elevator Thea said in that husky whisper which had so per plexed Dr. Archie when he first

heard it, "Tell the driver he must do it in twenty minutes, less if he can. He must leave the light on in the cab.

I can do a good deal in twenty minutes. If only you hadn't made me eat Damn that duck!" she broke out

"Wish I had it back! But it won't bother you, tonight. You need strength," he pleaded consolingly.

Ottenburg shot ahead and instructed the driver, while the doctor put Thea into the cab and shut the door. She

did not speak to either of them again. As the driver scram bled into his seat she opened the score and fixed

her eyes upon it. Her face, in the white light, looked as bleak as a stone quarry.

As her cab slid away, Ottenburg shoved Archie into a second taxi that waited by the curb. "We'd better trail

her," he explained. "There might be a holdup of some kind." As the cab whizzed off he broke into an

"What's the matter, Fred?" the doctor asked. He was a good deal dazed by the rapid evolutions of the last ten

"Matter enough!" Fred growled, buttoning his over coat with a shiver. "What a way to sing a part for the

first time! That duck really is on my conscience. It will be a wonder if she can do anything but quack!

Scrambling on in the middle of a performance like this, with no rehearsal! The stuff she has to sing in there is

"She looked frightened," Dr. Archie said thoughtfully, "but I thought she lookeddetermined."

Fred sniffed. "Oh, determined! That's the kind of rough deal that makes savages of singers. Here's a part she's

worked on and got ready for for years, and now they give her a chance to go on and butcher it. Goodness

knows when she's looked at the score last, or whether she can use the business she's studied with this cast.

Necker's singing BRUNNHILDE; she may help her, if it's not one of her sore nights."

"My dear man, Necker's sore at everything. She's breaking up; too early; just when she ought to be at her

best. There's one story that she is struggling under some serious malady, another that she learned a bad

method at the Prague Conservatory and has ruined her organ. She's the sorest thing in the world. If she

weathers this winter through, it'll be her last. She's paying for it with the last rags of her voice. And then"

"Then our girl may come in for some of it. It's dog eat dog, in this game as in every other."

The cab stopped and Fred and Dr. Archie hurried to the box office. The Mondaynight house was sold out.

They bought standing room and entered the auditorium just as the press representative of the house was

thanking the audience for their patience and telling them that although Madame Gloeckler was too ill to sing,

Miss Kronborg had kindly consented to finish her part. This announcement was met with vehement applause

"Yes, up there, where they're young and hungry. These people down here have dined too well. They won't

mind, however. They like fires and accidents and DIVERTISSEMENTS. Two SIEGLINDES are more

After the final disappearance of the mother of Siegfried, Ottenburg and the doctor slipped out through the

crowd and left the house. Near the stage entrance Fred found the driver who had brought Thea down. He

dismissed him and got a larger car. He and Archie waited on the sidewalk, and when Kronborg came out

Thea sank back into a corner of the back seat and yawned. "Well, I got through, eh?" Her tone was reas

suring. "On the whole, I think I've given you gentlemen a pretty lively evening, for one who has no social

"Rather! There was something like a popular uprising at the end of the second act. Archie and I couldn't keep

it up as long as the rest of them did. A howl like that ought to show the management which way the wind is

"I thought it went pretty well," she spoke impartially. "I was rather smart to catch his tempo there, at the

begin ning of the first recitative, when he came in too soon, don't you think? It's tricky in there, without a

rehearsal. Oh, I was all right! He took that syncopation too fast in the beginning. Some singers take it fast

therethink it sounds more impassioned. That's one way!" She sniffed, and Fred shot a mirthful glance at

Archie. Her boastful ness would have been childish in a schoolboy. In the light of what she had done, of the

strain they had lived through during the last two hours, it made one laugh,almost cry. She went on,

robustly: "And I didn't feel my din ner, really, Fred. I am hungry again, I'm ashamed to say, and I forgot

"Do you know any quiet place, where I won't be stared at? I've still got makeup on."

"I do. Nice English chophouse on Fortyfourth Street. Nobody there at night but theater people after the

As the car turned, Thea reached across to the front seat and drew Dr. Archie's handkerchief out of his breast

"This comes to me naturally," she said, rubbing her cheeks and eyebrows. "When I was little I always loved

your handkerchiefs because they were silk and smelled of Col ogne water. I think they must have been the

only really clean handkerchiefs in Moonstone. You were always wiping my face with them, when you met

Thea sighed. "Yes, Thor had such a way of getting messy. You say he's a good chauffeur?" She closed her

eyes for a moment as if they were tired. Suddenly she looked up. "Isn't it funny, how we travel in circles?

Here you are, still getting me clean, and Fred is still feeding me. I would have died of starvation at that

boardinghouse on Indiana Avenue if he hadn't taken me out to the Bucking ham and filled me up once in a

while. What a cavern I was to fill, too. The waiters used to look astonished. I'm still singing on that food."

Fred alighted and gave Thea his arm as they crossed the icy sidewalk. They were taken upstairs in an

antiquated lift and found the cheerful choproom half full of supper parties. An English company playing at

the Empire had just come in. The waiters, in red waistcoats, were hurry ing about. Fred got a table at the

back of the room, in a corner, and urged his waiter to get the oysters on at once.

"Yes, but make it as few as possible, and bring the lady's first. Then grilled chops with kidneys, and salad."

Thea began eating celery stalks at once, from the base to the foliage. "Necker said something nice to me to

night. You might have thought the management would say something, but not they." She looked at Fred from

under her blackened lashes. "It WAS a stunt, to jump in and sing that second act without rehearsal. It doesn't

Ottenburg was watching her brilliant eyes and her face. She was much handsomer than she had been early in

the evening. Excitement of this sort enriched her. It was only under such excitement, he reflected, that she

was entirely illuminated, or wholly present. At other times there was something a little cold and empty, like a

big room with no people in it. Even in her most genial moods there was a shadow of restlessness, as if she

were waiting for something and were exercising the virtue of patience. During dinner she had been as kind as

she knew how to be, to him and to Archie, and had given them as much of herself as she could. But, clearly,

she knew only one way of being really kind, from the core of her heart out; and there was but one way in

which she could give herself to people largely and gladly, spontaneously. Even as a girl she had been at her

best in vigorous effort, he remembered; physical effort, when there was no other kind at hand. She could be

expansive only in explosions. Old Nathanmeyer had seen it. In the very first song Fred had ever heard her

Thea Kronborg turned suddenly from her talk with Archie and peered suspiciously into the corner where

Otten burg sat with folded arms, observing her. "What's the matter with you, Fred? I'm afraid of you when

"I was wondering how you got right with the orchestra so quickly, there at first. I had a flash of terror," he re

She bolted her last oyster and ducked her head. "So had I! I don't know how I did catch it. Desperation, I

suppose; same way the Indian babies swim when they're thrown into the river. I HAD to. Now it's over, I'm

Archie, who usually felt that it behooved him to be silent during such discussions, was encouraged by her

geniality to venture, "I don't see how you can learn anything in such a turmoil; or how you can keep your

Thea glanced about the room and suddenly put her hand up to her hair. "Mercy, I've no hat on! Why didn't

you tell me? And I seem to be wearing a rumpled dinner dress, with all this paint on my face! I must look like

something you picked up on Second Avenue. I hope there are no Colorado reformers about, Dr. Archie. What

a dreadful old pair these people must be thinking you! Well, I had to eat." She sniffed the savor of the grill as

the waiter uncov ered it. "Yes, draught beer, please. No, thank you, Fred, NO champagne. To go back to

your question, Dr. Archie, you can believe I keep my mind on it. That's the whole trick, in so far as stage

experience goes; keeping right there every second. If I think of anything else for a flash, I'm gone, done for.

But at the same time, one can take things inwith another part of your brain, maybe. It's different from what

you get in study, more practical and conclusive. There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in

"Heaven help us," gasped Ottenburg. "Weren't you hungry, though! It's beautiful to see you eat."

"Glad you like it. Of course I'm hungry. Are you stay ing over for `Rheingold' Friday afternoon?"

"My dear Thea,"Fred lit a cigarette,"I'm a seri ous business man now. I have to sell beer. I'm due in

Chicago on Wednesday. I'd come back to hear you, but FRICKA is not an alluring part."

"Then you've never heard it well done." She spoke up hotly. "Fat German woman scolding her husband, eh?

That's not my idea. Wait till you hear my FRICKA. It's a beautiful part." Thea leaned forward on the table

and touched Archie's arm. "You remember, Dr. Archie, how my mother always wore her hair, parted in the

middle and done low on her neck behind, so you got the shape of her head and such a calm, white forehead? I

wear mine like that for FRICKA. A little more coronet effect, built up a lit tle higher at the sides, but the

idea's the same. I think you'll notice it." She turned to Ottenburg reproachfully: "It's noble music, Fred, from

the first measure. There's nothing lovelier than the WONNIGER HAUSRATH. It's all such comprehensive

Fred sighed. "There, you've spoiled my itinerary. Now I'll have to come back, of course. Archie, you'd bet

"I can get you box seats, somewhere. I know nobody here, and I never ask for any." Thea began hunting

among her wraps. "Oh, how funny! I've only these short woolen gloves, and no sleeves. Put on my coat first.

Those Eng lish people can't make out where you got your lady, she's so made up of contradictions." She

rose laughing and plunged her arms into the coat Dr. Archie held for her. As she settled herself into it and

buttoned it under her chin, she gave him an old signal with her eyelid. "I'd like to sing another part tonight.

This is the sort of evening I fancy, when there's something to do. Let me see: I have to sing in `Trovatore'

Wednesday night, and there are re hearsals for the `Ring' every day this week. Consider me dead until

Saturday, Dr. Archie. I invite you both to dine with me on Saturday night, the day after `Rheingold.' And

Fred must leave early, for I want to talk to you alone. You've been here nearly a week, and I haven't had a

THE "Ring of the Niebelungs" was to be given at the Metropolitan on four successive Friday afternoons.

After the first of these performances, Fred Ottenburg went home with Landry for tea. Landry was one of the

few pub lic entertainers who own real estate in New York. He lived in a little threestory brick house on

Jane Street, in Green wich Village, which had been left to him by the same aunt who paid for his musical

Landry was born, and spent the first fifteen years of his life, on a rocky Connecticut farm not far from Cos

Cob. His father was an ignorant, violent man, a bungling farmer and a brutal husband. The farmhouse,

dilapidated and damp, stood in a hollow beside a marshy pond. Oliver had worked hard while he lived at

home, although he was never clean or warm in winter and had wretched food all the year round. His spare,

dry figure, his prominent larynx, and the peculiar red of his face and hands belonged to the chore boy he had

never outgrown. It was as if the farm, knowing he would escape from it as early as he could, had ground its

mark on him deep. When he was fifteen Oliver ran away and went to live with his Catholic aunt, on Jane

Street, whom his mother was never allowed to visit. The priest of St. Joseph's Parish discovered that he had a

Landry had an affection for the house on Jane Street, where he had first learned what cleanliness and order

and courtesy were. When his aunt died he had the place done over, got an Irish housekeeper, and lived there

with a great many beautiful things he had collected. His living ex penses were never large, but he could not

restrain himself from buying graceful and useless objects. He was a collec tor for much the same reason that

he was a Catholic, and he was a Catholic chiefly because his father used to sit in the kitchen and read aloud to

his hired men disgusting "exposures" of the Roman Church, enjoying equally the hideous stories and the

At first Landry bought books; then rugs, drawings, china. He had a beautiful collection of old French and

Spanish fans. He kept them in an escritoire he had brought from Spain, but there were always a few of them

While Landry and his guest were waiting for the tea to be brought, Ottenburg took up one of these fans from

the low marble mantelshelf and opened it in the firelight. One side was painted with a pearly sky and

floating clouds. On the other was a formal garden where an elegant shep herdess with a mask and crook was

"You ought not to keep these things about, like this, Oliver. The dust from your grate must get at them."

"It does, but I get them to enjoy them, not to have them. They're pleasant to glance at and to play with at odd

Fred smiled. The idea of Landry stretched out before his fire playing with his fans, amused him. Mrs.

McGinnis brought the tea and put it before the hearth: old teacups that were velvety to the touch and a

potbellied silver cream pitcher of an Early Georgian pattern, which was always brought, though Landry

Fred drank his tea walking about, examining Landry's sumptuous writingtable in the alcove and the Boucher

drawing in red chalk over the mantel. "I don't see how you can stand this place without a heroine. It would

Landry was helping himself to a second cup of tea. "Works quite the other way with me. It consoles me for

the lack of her. It's just feminine enough to be pleasant to return to. Not any more tea? Then sit down and

play for me. I'm always playing for other people, and I never have a chance to sit here quietly and listen."

Ottenburg opened the piano and began softly to boom forth the shadowy introduction to the opera they had

just heard. "Will that do?" he asked jokingly. "I can't seem to get it out of my head."

"Oh, excellently! Thea told me it was quite wonderful, the way you can do Wagner scores on the piano. So

few people can give one any idea of the music. Go ahead, as long as you like. I can smoke, too." Landry

flattened him self out on his cushions and abandoned himself to ease with the circumstance of one who has

Ottenburg played on, as he happened to remember. He understood now why Thea wished him to hear her in

"Rheingold." It had been clear to him as soon as FRICKA rose from sleep and looked out over the young

world, stretching one white arm toward the new Gotterburg shining on the heights. "WOTAN! GEMAHL!

ERWACHE!" She was pure Scandinavian, this FRICKA: "Swedish summer"! he remembered old Mr.

Nathanmeyer's phrase. She had wished him to see her because she had a distinct kind of loveliness for this

part, a shining beauty like the light of sunset on distant sails. She seemed to take on the look of immortal

loveliness, the youth of the golden apples, the shining body and the shining mind. FRICKA had been a

jealous spouse to him for so long that he had forgot she meant wisdom before she meant domestic order, and

that, in any event, she was always a goddess. The FRICKA of that afternoon was so clear and sunny, so nobly

conceived, that she made a whole atmosphere about herself and quite redeemed from shabbiness the

helplessness and unscrupu lousness of the gods. Her reproaches to WOTAN were the pleadings of a

tempered mind, a consistent sense of beauty. In the long silences of her part, her shining presence was a

visible complement to the discussion of the orchestra. As the themes which were to help in weaving the

drama to its end first came vaguely upon the ear, one saw their import and tendency in the face of this

In the scene between FRICKA and WOTAN, Ottenburg stopped. "I can't seem to get the voices, in there."

Landry chuckled. "Don't try. I know it well enough. I expect I've been over that with her a thousand times. I

was playing for her almost every day when she was first working on it. When she begins with a part she's

hard to work with: so slow you'd think she was stupid if you didn't know her. Of course she blames it all on

her accompanist. It goes on like that for weeks sometimes. This did. She kept shaking her head and staring

and looking gloomy. All at once, she got her lineit usually comes suddenly, after stretches of not getting

anywhere at alland after that it kept changing and clearing. As she worked her voice into it, it got more and

Fred began FRICKA'S first aria again. "It's certainly different. Curious how she does it. Such a beautiful idea,

out of a part that's always been so ungrateful. She's a lovely thing, but she was never so beautiful as that,

really. Nobody is." He repeated the loveliest phrase. "How does she manage it, Landry? You've worked with

Landry drew cherishingly on the last cigarette he meant to permit himself before singing. "Oh, it's a question

of a big personalityand all that goes with it. Brains, of course. Imagination, of course. But the important

thing is that she was born full of color, with a rich personality. That's a gift of the gods, like a fine nose. You

have it, or you haven't. Against it, intelligence and musicianship and habits of industry don't count at all.

Singers are a conventional race. When Thea was studying in Berlin the other girls were mortally afraid of her.

She has a pretty rough hand with women, dull ones, and she could be rude, too! The girls used to call her DIE

Fred thrust his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the piano. "Of course, even a stupid woman

could get effects with such machinery: such a voice and body and face. But they couldn't possibly belong to a

Landry shook his head. "It's personality; that's as near as you can come to it. That's what constitutes real

equip ment. What she does is interesting because she does it. Even the things she discards are suggestive. I

regret some of them. Her conceptions are colored in so many different ways. You've heard her ELIZABETH?

Wonderful, isn't it? She was working on that part years ago when her mother was ill. I could see her anxiety

and grief getting more and more into the part. The last act is heartbreaking. It's as homely as a country

prayer meeting: might be any lonely woman getting ready to die. It's full of the thing every plain creature

finds out for himself, but that never gets written down. It's unconscious memory, maybe; inherited memory,

Fred laughed, and turning to the piano began coaxing the FRICKA music again. "Call it anything you like,

my boy. I have a name for it myself, but I shan't tell you." He looked over his shoulder at Landry, stretched

"Oh, yes!" replied Landry simply. "I'm not interested in much that goes on in New York. Now, if you'll

excuse me, I'll have to dress." He rose with a reluctant sigh. "Can I get you anything? Some whiskey?"

"Thank you, no. I'll amuse myself here. I don't often get a chance at a good piano when I'm away from home.

You haven't had this one long, have you? Action's a bit stiff. I say," he stopped Landry in the doorway, "has

Landry turned back. "Yes. She came several times when I had erysipelas. I was a nice mess, with two nurses.

She brought down some inside windowboxes, planted with crocuses and things. Very cheering, only I

"She thought she did, but I fancy it was a good deal cluttered up for her taste. I could hear her pacing about

like something in a cage. She pushed the piano back against the wall and the chairs into corners, and she

broke my amber elephant." Landry took a yellow object some four inches high from one of his low

bookcases. "You can see where his leg is glued on,a souvenir. Yes, he's lemon amber, very fine."

Landry disappeared behind the curtains and in a moment Fred heard the wheeze of an atomizer. He put the

amber elephant on the piano beside him and seemed to get a great deal of amusement out of the beast.

WHEN Archie and Ottenburg dined with Thea on Saturday evening, they were served downstairs in the hotel

diningroom, but they were to have their coffee in her own apartment. As they were going up in the ele

vator after dinner, Fred turned suddenly to Thea. "And why, please, did you break Landry's amber elephant?"

She looked guilty and began to laugh. "Hasn't he got over that yet? I didn't really mean to break it. I was per

haps careless. His things are so overpetted that I was tempted to be careless with a lot of them."

"He has me. I'm a great deal of diversion for him; all he needs. There," she said as she opened the door into

"Even an elevator boy couldn't make a scandal about Oliver. He's such a catnip man."

Dr. Archie laughed, but Thea, who seemed suddenly to have thought of something annoying, repeated

"Yes, he lives on catnip, and rum tea. But he's not the only one. You are like an eccentric old woman I know

in Boston, who goes about in the spring feeding catnip to street cats. You dispense it to a lot of fellows. Your

pull seems to be more with men than with women, you know; with seasoned men, about my age, or older.

Even on Fri day afternoon I kept running into them, old boys I hadn't seen for years, thin at the part and

thick at the girth, until I stood still in the draft and held my hair on. They're al ways there; I hear them

talking about you in the smoking room. Probably we don't get to the point of apprehending anything good

until we're about forty. Then, in the light of what is going, and of what, God help us! is coming, we arrive at

"I don't see why people go to the opera, anyway,seri ous people." She spoke discontentedly. "I suppose

they get something, or think they do. Here's the coffee. There, please," she directed the waiter. Going to the

table she be gan to pour the coffee, standing. She wore a white dress trimmed with crystals which had

rattled a good deal dur ing dinner, as all her movements had been impatient and nervous, and she had

twisted the dark velvet rose at her girdle until it looked rumpled and weary. She poured the coffee as if it

were a ceremony in which she did not believe. "Can you make anything of Fred's nonsense, Dr. Archie?" she

Fred approached her. "My nonsense is all right. The same brand has gone with you before. It's you who won't

"I've a good deal. Too much to be an agreeable hos tess." She turned quickly away from the coffee and sat

down on the piano bench, facing the two men. "For one thing, there's a change in the cast for Friday

afternoon. They're going to let me sing SIEGLINDE." Her frown did not conceal the pleasure with which she

"Are you going to keep us dangling about here forever, Thea? Archie and I are supposed to have other things

"Here I've been ready to sing SIEGLINDE for two years, kept in torment, and now it comes off within two

weeks, just when I want to be seeing something of Dr. Archie. I don't know what their plans are down there.

After Friday they may let me cool for several weeks, and they may rush me. I suppose it depends somewhat

"Oh, they'll go fast enough! That's better suited to your voice than anything you've sung here. That gives you

every opportunity I've waited for." Ottenburg crossed the room and standing beside her began to play "DU

With a violent movement Thea caught his wrists and pushed his hands away from the keys.

"Fred, can't you be serious? A thousand things may happen between this and Friday to put me out. Some

thing will happen. If that part were sung well, as well as it ought to be, it would be one of the most beautiful

things in the world. That's why it never is sung right, and never will be." She clenched her hands and opened

them de spairingly, looking out of the open window. "It's inac cessibly beautiful!" she brought out sharply.

Fred and Dr. Archie watched her. In a moment she turned back to them. "It's impossible to sing a part like

that well for the first time, except for the sort who will never sing it any better. Everything hangs on that first

night, and that's bound to be bad. There you are," she shrugged impatiently. "For one thing, they change the

Ottenburg put down his cup with exaggerated care. "Still, you really want to do it, you know."

"Want to?" she repeated indignantly; "of course I want to! If this were only next Thursday night But

between now and Friday I'll do nothing but fret away my strength. Oh, I'm not saying I don't need the

rehearsals! But I don't need them strung out through a week. That sys tem's well enough for phlegmatic

singers; it only drains me. Every single feature of operatic routine is detri mental to me. I usually go on like

a horse that's been fixed to lose a race. I have to work hard to do my worst, let alone my best. I wish you

could hear me sing well, once," she turned to Fred defiantly; "I have, a few times in my life, when there was

Fred approached her again and held out his hand. "I recall my instructions, and now I'll leave you to fight it

out with Archie. He can't possibly represent managerial stu pidity to you as I seem to have a gift for doing."

As he smiled down at her, his good humor, his good wishes, his understanding, embarrassed her and recalled

her to herself. She kept her seat, still holding his hand. "All the same, Fred, isn't it too bad, that there are so

"My dear girl, if I could bridge over the agony between now and Friday for you But you know the rules of

the game; why torment yourself? You saw the other night that you had the part under your thumb. Now walk,

sleep, play with Archie, keep your tiger hungry, and she'll spring all right on Friday. I'll be there to see her,

and there'll be more than I, I suspect. Harsanyi's on the Wilhelm der Grosse; gets in on Thursday."

"Harsanyi?" Thea's eye lighted. "I haven't seen him for years. We always miss each other." She paused, hesi

"He gives his first concert at Carnegie Hall, week after next. Better send him a box if you can."

"Yes, I'll manage it." Thea took his hand again. "Oh, I should like that, Fred!" she added impulsively. "Even

if I were put out, he'd get the idea,"she threw back her head,"for there is an idea!"

"Which won't penetrate here," he tapped his brow and began to laugh. "You are an ungrateful huzzy,

Thea detained him as he turned away. She pulled a flower out of a bouquet on the piano and absently drew

the stem through the lapel of his coat. "I shall be walking in the Park tomorrow afternoon, on the reservoir

path, between four and five, if you care to join me. You know that after Harsanyi I'd rather please you than

"Thank you. Don't try to analyze it. SCHLAFEN SIE WOHL!" he kissed her fingers and waved from the

"He's the right sort, Thea." Dr. Archie looked warmly after his disappearing friend. "I've always hoped you'd

"Well, haven't I? Oh, marry him, you mean! Perhaps it may come about, some day. Just at present he's not in

"No, I suppose not. It's a damned shame that a man like Ottenburg should be tied up as he is, wasting all the

"Don't let us talk about Fred's wife, please. He had no business to get into such a mess, and he had no

"Too much light in here, isn't there? Tires one's eyes. The stage lights are hard on mine." Thea began turning

them out. "We'll leave the little one, over the piano." She sank down by Archie on the deep sofa. "We two

have so much to talk about that we keep away from it altogether; have you noticed? We don't even nibble the

"I'm afraid you don't have enough personal life, outside your work, Thea." The doctor looked at her

She smiled at him with her eyes half closed. "My dear doctor, I don't have any. Your work becomes your

per sonal life. You are not much good until it does. It's like being woven into a big web. You can't pull

away, because all your little tendrils are woven into the picture. It takes you up, and uses you, and spins you

"You mean Nordquist? Yes; but I changed my mind. We had been singing a good deal together. He's a

She smiled again. "I don't think I know just what that expression means. I've never been able to find out. I

think I was in love with you when I was little, but not with any one since then. There are a great many ways

of caring for people. It's not, after all, a simple state, like measles or tonsilitis. Nordquist is a taking sort of

man. He and I were out in a rowboat once in a terrible storm. The lake was fed by glaciers,ice water,and

we couldn't have swum a stroke if the boat had filled. If we hadn't both been strong and kept our heads, we'd

have gone down. We pulled for every ounce there was in us, and we just got off with our lives. We were

always being thrown together like that, under some kind of pressure. Yes, for a while I thought he would

make everything right." She paused and sank back, resting her head on a cushion, pressing her eyelids down

with her fingers. "You see," she went on abruptly, "he had a wife and two chil dren. He hadn't lived with her

for several years, but when she heard that he wanted to marry again, she began to make trouble. He earned a

good deal of money, but he was careless and always wretchedly in debt. He came to me one day and told me

he thought his wife would settle for a hundred thousand marks and consent to a divorce. I got very angry and

sent him away. Next day he came back and said he thought she'd take fifty thousand."

"Good God, Thea," He ran his handkerchief over his forehead. "What sort of people" He stopped and

Thea rose and stood beside him, her hand on his shoul der. "That's exactly how it struck me," she said

quietly. "Oh, we have things in common, things that go away back, under everything. You understand, of

course. Nordquist didn't. He thought I wasn't willing to part with the money. I couldn't let myself buy him

from Fru Nord quist, and he couldn't see why. He had always thought I was close about money, so he

attributed it to that. I am careful,"she ran her arm through Archie's and when he rose began to walk about

the room with him. "I can't be careless with money. I began the world on six hundred dollars, and it was the

price of a man's life. Ray Kennedy had worked hard and been sober and denied him self, and when he died

he had six hundred dollars to show for it. I always measure things by that six hundred dol lars, just as I

measure high buildings by the Moonstone standpipe. There are standards we can't get away from."

Dr. Archie took her hand. "I don't believe we should be any happier if we did get away from them. I think it

gives you some of your poise, having that anchor. You look," glancing down at her head and shoulders,

"Thank you. You couldn't say anything nicer to me than that. On Friday afternoon, didn't you think?"

"Yes, but at other times, too. I love to see it. Do you know what I thought about that first night when I heard

you sing? I kept remembering the night I took care of you when you had pneumonia, when you were ten

years old. You were a terribly sick child, and I was a country doctor without much experience. There were no

Thea dropped her head on his shoulder. "I'd have saved myself and you a lot of trouble, wouldn't I? Dear Dr.

"As for me, life would have been a pretty bleak stretch, with you left out." The doctor took one of the crystal

pendants that hung from her shoulder and looked into it thoughtfully. "I guess I'm a romantic old fellow,

under neath. And you've always been my romance. Those years when you were growing up were my

They paused by the open window. "Do you? Nearly all my dreams, except those about breaking down on the

stage or missing trains, are about Moonstone. You tell me the old house has been pulled down, but it stands

in my mind, every stick and timber. In my sleep I go all about it, and look in the right drawers and cupboards

for everything. I often dream that I'm hunting for my rub bers in that pile of overshoes that was always

under the hatrack in the hall. I pick up every overshoe and know whose it is, but I can't find my own. Then

the school bell begins to ring and I begin to cry. That's the house I rest in when I'm tired. All the old furniture

They were looking out of the window. Thea kept his arm. Down on the river four battleships were anchored

in line, brilliantly lighted, and launches were coming and going, bringing the men ashore. A searchlight from

one of the ironclads was playing on the great headland up the river, where it makes its first resolute turn.

"There's so much that I want to tell you," she said at last, "and it's hard to explain. My life is full of jealousies

and disappointments, you know. You get to hating people who do contemptible work and who get on just as

well as you do. There are many disappointments in my profession, and bitter, bitter contempts!" Her face

hardened, and looked much older. "If you love the good thing vitally, enough to give up for it all that one

must give up for it, then you must hate the cheap thing just as hard. I tell you, there is such a thing as creative

hate! A contempt that drives you through fire, makes you risk everything and lose everything, makes you a

long sight better than you ever knew you could be." As she glanced at Dr. Archie's face, Thea stopped short

and turned her own face away. Her eyes followed the path of the searchlight up the river and rested upon the

"You see," she went on more calmly, "voices are acci dental things. You find plenty of good voices in

common women, with common minds and common hearts. Look at that woman who sang ORTRUDE with

me last week. She's new here and the people are wild about her. `Such a beau tiful volume of tone!' they

say. I give you my word she's as stupid as an owl and as coarse as a pig, and any one who knows anything

about singing would see that in an instant. Yet she's quite as popular as Necker, who's a great artist. How can

I get much satisfaction out of the enthusiasm of a house that likes her atrociously bad per formance at the

same time that it pretends to like mine? If they like her, then they ought to hiss me off the stage. We stand for

things that are irreconcilable, absolutely. You can't try to do things right and not despise the peo ple who do

them wrong. How can I be indifferent? If that doesn't matter, then nothing matters. Well, some times I've

come home as I did the other night when you first saw me, so full of bitterness that it was as if my mind were

full of daggers. And I've gone to sleep and wakened up in the Kohlers' garden, with the pigeons and the white

rabbits, so happy! And that saves me." She sat down on the piano bench. Archie thought she had forgotten all

about him, until she called his name. Her voice was soft now, and wonderfully sweet. It seemed to come from

some where deep within her, there were such strong vibrations in it. "You see, Dr. Archie, what one really

strives for in art is not the sort of thing you are likely to find when you drop in for a performance at the opera.

What one strives for is so far away, so deep, so beautiful"she lifted her shoulders with a long breath,

folded her hands in her lap and sat looking at him with a resignation that made her face noble,"that there's

Without knowing very well what it was all about, Archie was passionately stirred for her. "I've always be

She smiled and closed her eyes. "They save me: the old things, things like the Kohlers' garden. They are in

"Yes. Not in any direct way,"she spoke hurriedly, "the light, the color, the feeling. Most of all the

feeling. It comes in when I'm working on a part, like the smell of a garden coming in at the window. I try all

the new things, and then go back to the old. Perhaps my feelings were stronger then. A child's attitude toward

everything is an artist's attitude. I am more or less of an artist now, but then I was nothing else. When I went

with you to Chicago that first time, I carried with me the essentials, the foundation of all I do now. The point

to which I could go was scratched in me then. I haven't reached it yet, by a long way."

Archie had a swift flash of memory. Pictures passed before him. "You mean," he asked wonderingly, "that

Thea looked up at him and smiled. "Oh, I didn't know anything! Not enough to ask you for my trunk when I

needed it. But you see, when I set out from Moonstone with you, I had had a rich, romantic past. I had lived a

long, eventful life, and an artist's life, every hour of it. Wagner says, in his most beautiful opera, that art is

only a way of remembering youth. And the older we grow the more precious it seems to us, and the more

richly we can present that memory. When we've got it all out,the last, the finest thrill of it, the brightest

hope of it,"she lifted her hand above her head and dropped it,"then we stop. We do nothing but repeat

after that. The stream has reached the level of its source. That's our measure."

There was a long, warm silence. Thea was looking hard at the floor, as if she were seeing down through years

and years, and her old friend stood watching her bent head. His look was one with which he used to watch her

long ago, and which, even in thinking about her, had become a habit of his face. It was full of solicitude, and

a kind of secret gratitude, as if to thank her for some inexpressible pleasure of the heart. Thea turned

Archie sat down and shaded his eyes with his hand. She turned her head and spoke to him over her shoulder.

"We can get on without Landry. Let's try it again, I have all the words now. Then we'll have `Sweet Afton.'

OTTENBURG dismissed his taxicab at the 91st Street entrance of the Park and floundered across the drive

through a wild spring snowstorm. When he reached the reservoir path he saw Thea ahead of him, walking

rapidly against the wind. Except for that one figure, the path was deserted. A flock of gulls were hovering

over the reservoir, seeming bewildered by the driving currents of snow that whirled above the black water

and then disappeared with in it. When he had almost overtaken Thea, Fred called to her, and she turned and

waited for him with her back to the wind. Her hair and furs were powdered with snow flakes, and she

looked like some richpelted animal, with warm blood, that had run in out of the woods. Fred laughed as he

"No use asking how you do. You surely needn't feel much anxiety about Friday, when you can look like this."

She moved close to the iron fence to make room for him beside her, and faced the wind again. "Oh, I'm

WELL enough, in so far as that goes. But I'm not lucky about stage appearances. I'm easily upset, and the

"Of course I do. I don't mind nerves so much as getting numbed," Thea muttered, sheltering her face for a

mo ment with her muff. "I'm under a spell, you know, hoo dooed. It's the thing I WANT to do that I can

"Yes, you get effects, and not only with your voice. That's where you have it over all the rest of them; you're

as much at home on the stage as you were down in Panther Canyonas if you'd just been let out of a cage.

Thea nodded. "Oh, yes! For heroic parts, at least. Out of the rocks, out of the dead people. You mean the idea

of standing up under things, don't you, meeting catas trophe? No fussiness. Seems to me they must have

been a reserved, somber people, with only a muscular language, all their movements for a purpose; simple,

strong, as if they were dealing with fate barehanded." She put her gloved fingers on Fred's arm. "I don't

know how I can ever thank you enough. I don't know if I'd ever have got anywhere without Panther Canyon.

How did you know that was the one thing to do for me? It's the sort of thing nobody ever helps one to, in this

world. One can learn how to sing, but no singing teacher can give anybody what I got down there. How did

"I didn't know. Anything else would have done as well. It was your creative hour. I knew you were getting a

"Do you know what they really taught me?" she came out suddenly. "They taught me the inevitable hardness

of human life. No artist gets far who doesn't know that. And you can't know it with your mind. You have to

realize it in your body, somehow; deep. It's an animal sort of feeling. I sometimes think it's the strongest of

"I think so. Even your audiences feel it, vaguely: that you've sometime or other faced things that make you

Thea turned her back to the wind, wiping away the snow that clung to her brows and lashes. "Ugh!" she

exclaimed; "no matter how long a breath you have, the storm has a longer. I haven't signed for next season,

yet, Fred. I'm holding out for a big contract: forty performances. Necker won't be able to do much next

winter. It's going to be one of those between seasons; the old singers are too old, and the new ones are too

new. They might as well risk me as anybody. So I want good terms. The next five or six years are going to be

"You'll get what you demand, if you are uncompro mising. I'm safe in congratulating you now."

Thea laughed. "It's a little early. I may not get it at all. They don't seem to be breaking their necks to meet me.

As they turned the curve and walked westward they got the wind from the side, and talking was easier.

Fred lowered his collar and shook the snow from his shoulders. "Oh, I don't mean on the contract particularly.

I congratulate you on what you can do, Thea, and on all that lies behind what you do. On the life that's led up

to it, and on being able to care so much. That, after all, is the unusual thing."

She looked at him sharply, with a certain apprehension. "Care? Why shouldn't I care? If I didn't, I'd be in a

bad way. What else have I got?" She stopped with a challenging interrogation, but Ottenburg did not reply.

"I care about your success, of course." Fred fell into a slower pace. Thea felt at once that he was talking seri

ously and had dropped the tone of halfironical exaggera tion he had used with her of late years. "And I'm

grateful to you for what you demand from yourself, when you might get off so easily. You demand more and

more all the time, and you'll do more and more. One is grateful to anybody for that; it makes life in general a

little less sordid. But as a matter of fact, I'm not much interested in how anybody sings anything."

"That's too bad of you, when I'm just beginning to see what is worth doing, and how I want to do it!" Thea

"That's what I congratulate you on. That's the great difference between your kind and the rest of us. It's how

long you're able to keep it up that tells the story. When you needed enthusiasm from the outside, I was able to

"I'm not tying you, am I?" she flashed out. "But with draw to what? What do you want?"

Fred shrugged. "I might ask you, What have I got? I want things that wouldn't interest you; that you prob

"I can understand that. It seems to me reasonable. Have you also found somebody you want to marry?"

"Not particularly." They turned another curve, which brought the wind to their backs, and they walked on in

comparative calm, with the snow blowing past them. "It's not your fault, Thea, but I've had you too much in

my mind. I've not given myself a fair chance in other direc tions. I was in Rome when you and Nordquist

Fred nodded sympathetically and went on. "In my library in St. Louis, over the fireplace, I have a property

spear I had copied from one in Venice,oh, years ago, after you first went abroad, while you were studying.

You'll probably be singing BRUNNHILDE pretty soon now, and I'll send it on to you, if I may. You can take

it and its history for what they're worth. But I'm nearly forty years old, and I've served my turn. You've done

what I hoped for you, what I was honestly willing to lose you forthen. I'm older now, and I think I was an

ass. I wouldn't do it again if I had the chance, not much! But I'm not sorry. It takes a great many people to

Thea stopped by the fence and looked over into the black choppiness on which the snowflakes fell and dis

appeared with magical rapidity. Her face was both angry and troubled. "So you really feel I've been

ungrateful. I thought you sent me out to get something. I didn't know you wanted me to bring in something

easy. I thought you wanted something" She took a deep breath and shrugged her shoulders. "But there!

nobody on God's earth wants it, REALLY! If one other person wanted it,"she thrust her hand out before

Fred laughed dismally. "Even in my ashes I feel my self pushing you! How can anybody help it? My dear

girl, can't you see that anybody else who wanted it as you do would be your rival, your deadliest danger?

Can't you see that it's your great good fortune that other people can't care about it so much?"

But Thea seemed not to take in his protest at all. She went on vindicating herself. "It's taken me a long while

to do anything, of course, and I've only begun to see day light. But anything good isexpensive. It hasn't

Fred looked at her face intently, through the veil of snowflakes, and shook his head. "To me? You are a

truth ful woman, and you don't mean to lie to me. But after the one responsibility you do feel, I doubt if

you've enough left to feel responsible to God! Still, if you've ever in an idle hour fooled yourself with

"Even if I'd married Nordquist," Thea went on, turn ing down the path again, "there would have been some

thing left out. There always is. In a way, I've always been married to you. I'm not very flexible; never was

and never shall be. You caught me young. I could never have that over again. One can't, after one begins to

know anything. But I look back on it. My life hasn't been a gay one, any more than yours. If I shut things out

from you, you shut them out from me. We've been a help and a hindrance to each other. I guess it's always

that way, the good and the bad all mixed up. There's only one thing that's all beau tifuland always

"Yes, I know." Fred looked sidewise at the outline of her head against the thickening atmosphere. "And you

give one the impression that that is enough. I've gradu ally, gradually given you up."

"See, the lights are coming out." Thea pointed to where they flickered, flashes of violet through the gray

treetops. Lower down the globes along the drives were becoming a pale lemon color. "Yes, I don't see why

anybody wants to marry an artist, anyhow. I remember Ray Kennedy used to say he didn't see how any

woman could marry a gambler, for she would only be marrying what the game left." She shook her shoulders

impatiently. "Who marries who is a small matter, after all. But I hope I can bring back your interest in my

work. You've cared longer and more than anybody else, and I'd like to have somebody human to make a

report to once in a while. You can send me your spear. I'll do my best. If you're not interested, I'll do my best

anyhow. I've only a few friends, but I can lose every one of them, if it has to be. I learned how to lose when

The blue light about them was growing deeper and darker, and the falling snow and the faint trees had be

come violet. To the south, over Broadway, there was an orange reflection in the clouds. Motors and carriage

lights flashed by on the drive below the reservoir path, and the air was strident with horns and shrieks from

Fred gave Thea his arm as they descended from the embankment. "I guess you'll never manage to lose me or

Archie, Thea. You do pick up queer ones. But loving you is a heroic discipline. It wears a man out. Tell me

Thea hurried him along, talking rapidly, as if to get it over. "You might have kept me in misery for a while,

perhaps. I don't know. I have to think well of myself, to work. You could have made it hard. I'm not

ungrateful. I was a difficult proposition to deal with. I understand now, of course. Since you didn't tell me the

truth in the be ginning, you couldn't very well turn back after I'd set my head. At least, if you'd been the sort

who could, you wouldn't have had to,for I'd not have cared a button for that sort, even then." She stopped

beside a car that waited at the curb and gave him her hand. "There. We part friends?"

"Yes," she reflected, as the taxi cut into the Park carriage road, "we don't get fairy tales in this world, and he

has, after all, cared more and longer than anybody else." It was dark outside now, and the light from the

lamps along the drive flashed into the cab. The snowflakes hovered like swarms of white bees about the

Thea sat motionless in one corner staring out of the window at the cab lights that wove in and out among the

trees, all seeming to be bent upon joyous courses. Taxicabs were still new in New York, and the theme of

popular minstrelsy. Landry had sung her a ditty he heard in some theater on Third Avenue, about

Almost inaudibly Thea began to hum the air, though she was thinking of something serious, something that

had touched her deeply. At the beginning of the season, when she was not singing often, she had gone one

afternoon to hear Paderewski's recital. In front of her sat an old Ger man couple, evidently poor people who

had made sacri fices to pay for their excellent seats. Their intelligent enjoyment of the music, and their

friendliness with each other, had interested her more than anything on the pro gramme. When the pianist

began a lovely melody in the first movement of the Beethoven D minor sonata, the old lady put out her

plump hand and touched her hus band's sleeve and they looked at each other in recognition. They both wore

glasses, but such a look! Like forgetme nots, and so full of happy recollections. Thea wanted to put her

arms around them and ask them how they had been able to keep a feeling like that, like a nosegay in a glass

DR. ARCHIE saw nothing of Thea during the follow ing week. After several fruitless efforts, he succeeded

in getting a word with her over the telephone, but she sounded so distracted and driven that he was glad to

say goodnight and hang up the instrument. There were, she told him, rehearsals not only for "Walkure," but

On Thursday afternoon Thea got home late, after an exhausting rehearsal. She was in no happy frame of

mind. Madame Necker, who had been very gracious to her that night when she went on to complete

Gloeckler's performance of SIEGLINDE, had, since Thea was cast to sing the part instead of Gloeckler in the

production of the "Ring," been chilly and disapproving, distinctly hostile. Thea had always felt that she and

Necker stood for the same sort of endeavor, and that Necker recognized it and had a cordial feeling for her. In

Germany she had several times sung BRANGAENA to Necker's ISOLDE, and the older artist had let her

know that she thought she sang it beau tifully. It was a bitter disappointment to find that the approval of so

honest an artist as Necker could not stand the test of any significant recognition by the management. Madame

Necker was forty, and her voice was failing just when her powers were at their height. Every fresh young

voice was an enemy, and this one was accompanied by gifts which she could not fail to recognize.

Thea had her dinner sent up to her apartment, and it was a very poor one. She tasted the soup and then indig

nantly put on her wraps to go out and hunt a dinner. As she was going to the elevator, she had to admit that

she was behaving foolishly. She took off her hat and coat and ordered another dinner. When it arrived, it was

no better than the first. There was even a burnt match under the milk toast. She had a sore throat, which made

swal lowing painful and boded ill for the morrow. Although she had been speaking in whispers all day to

save her throat, she now perversely summoned the housekeeper and de manded an account of some laundry

that had been lost. The housekeeper was indifferent and impertinent, and Thea got angry and scolded

violently. She knew it was very bad for her to get into a rage just before bedtime, and after the housekeeper

left she realized that for ten dollars' worth of underclothing she had been unfitting herself for a performance

which might eventually mean many thous ands. The best thing now was to stop reproaching herself for her

While she was undressingTherese was brushing out her SIEGLINDE wig in the trunkroomshe went on

chid ing herself bitterly. "And how am I ever going to get to sleep in this state?" she kept asking herself. "If

I don't sleep, I'll be perfectly worthless tomorrow. I'll go down there tomorrow and make a fool of myself.

If I'd let that laundry alone with whatever nigger has stolen it WHY did I undertake to reform the

management of this hotel tonight? After tomorrow I could pack up and leave the place. There's the

PhillamonI liked the rooms there better, anyhowand the Umberto" She began going over the

advantages and disadvantages of different apart ment hotels. Suddenly she checked herself. "What AM I

doing this for? I can't move into another hotel tonight. I'll keep this up till morning. I shan't sleep a wink."

Should she take a hot bath, or shouldn't she? Some times it relaxed her, and sometimes it roused her and

fairly put her beside herself. Between the conviction that she must sleep and the fear that she couldn't, she

hung para lyzed. When she looked at her bed, she shrank from it in every nerve. She was much more afraid

of it than she had ever been of the stage of any opera house. It yawned be fore her like the sunken road at

She rushed into her bathroom and locked the door. She would risk the bath, and defer the encounter with the

bed a little longer. She lay in the bath half an hour. The warmth of the water penetrated to her bones, induced

pleasant reflections and a feeling of wellbeing. It was very nice to have Dr. Archie in New York, after all,

and to see him get so much satisfaction out of the little companionship she was able to give him. She liked

people who got on, and who became more interesting as they grew older. There was Fred; he was much more

interesting now than he had been at thirty. He was intelligent about music, and he must be very intelligent in

his business, or he would not be at the head of the Brewers' Trust. She respected that kind of intelligence and

success. Any success was good. She herself had made a good start, at any rate, and now, if she could get to

sleep Yes, they were all more inter esting than they used to be. Look at Harsanyi, who had been so long

retarded; what a place he had made for him self in Vienna. If she could get to sleep, she would show him

She got quickly into bed and moved about freely be tween the sheets. Yes, she was warm all over. A cold,

dry breeze was coming in from the river, thank goodness! She tried to think about her little rock house and

the Ari zona sun and the blue sky. But that led to memories which were still too disturbing. She turned on

She entered her father's front door, hung her hat and coat on the rack, and stopped in the parlor to warm her

hands at the stove. Then she went out through the dining room, where the boys were getting their lessons at

the long table; through the sittingroom, where Thor was asleep in his cot bed, his dress and stocking

hanging on a chair. In the kitchen she stopped for her lantern and her hot brick. She hurried up the back stairs

and through the windy loft to her own glacial room. The illusion was marred only by the consciousness that

she ought to brush her teeth before she went to bed, and that she never used to do it. Why? The water was

frozen solid in the pitcher, so she got over that. Once between the red blankets there was a short, fierce battle

with the cold; then, warmerwarmer. She could hear her father shaking down the hardcoal burner for the

night, and the wind rushing and banging down the village street. The boughs of the cottonwood, hard as bone,

rattled against her gable. The bed grew softer and warmer. Everybody was warm and well downstairs. The

sprawling old house had gathered them all in, like a hen, and had settled down over its brood. They were all

warm in her father's house. Softer and softer. She was asleep. She slept ten hours without turning over. From

On Friday afternoon there was an inspiring audience; there was not an empty chair in the house. Ottenburg

and Dr. Archie had seats in the orchestra circle, got from a ticket broker. Landry had not been able to get a

seat, so he roamed about in the back of the house, where he usually stood when he dropped in after his own

turn in vaudeville was over. He was there so often and at such irregular hours that the ushers thought he was a

Harsanyi and his wife were in a box, near the stage, in the second circle. Mrs. Harsanyi's hair was noticeably

gray, but her face was fuller and handsomer than in those early years of struggle, and she was beautifully

dressed. Harsanyi himself had changed very little. He had put on his best afternoon coat in honor of his pupil,

and wore a pearl in his black ascot. His hair was longer and more bushy than he used to wear it, and there was

now one gray lock on the right side. He had always been an elegant figure, even when he went about in

shabby clothes and was crushed with work. Before the curtain rose he was restless and nervous, and kept

looking at his watch and wishing he had got a few more letters off before he left his hotel. He had not been in

New York since the advent of the taxicab, and had allowed himself too much time. His wife knew that he was

afraid of being disappointed this afternoon. He did not often go to the opera because the stupid things that

singers did vexed him so, and it always put him in a rage if the conductor held the tempo or in any way

When the lights went out and the violins began to quaver their long D against the rude figure of the basses,

Mrs. Harsanyi saw her husband's fingers fluttering on his knee in a rapid tattoo. At the moment when

SIEGLINDE entered from the side door, she leaned toward him and whispered in his ear, "Oh, the lovely

creature!" But he made no response, either by voice or gesture. Throughout the first scene he sat sunk in his

chair, his head forward and his one yellow eye rolling restlessly and shining like a tiger's in the dark. His eye

followed SIEGLINDE about the stage like a satellite, and as she sat at the table listening to SIEGMUND'S

long narrative, it never left her. When she prepared the sleeping draught and disappeared after HUNDING,

Harsanyi bowed his head still lower and put his hand over his eye to rest it. The tenor,a young man who

Harsanyi smiled, but he did not look forth again until SIEGLINDE reappeared. She went through the story of

her shameful bridal feast and into the Walhall' music, which she always sang so nobly, and the entrance of

Mrs. Harsanyi glanced at her husband, wondering whether the singer on the stage could not feel his

Seated in the moonlight, the VOLSUNG pair began their loving inspection of each other's beauties, and the

music born of murmuring sound passed into her face, as the old poet said,and into her body as well. Into

one lovely attitude after another the music swept her, love impelled her. And the voice gave out all that was

best in it. Like the spring, indeed, it blossomed into memories and prophe cies, it recounted and it foretold,

as she sang the story of her friendless life, and of how the thing which was truly herself, "bright as the day,

rose to the surface" when in the hostile world she for the first time beheld her Friend. Fervently she rose into

the hardier feeling of action and daring, the pride in herostrength and heroblood, until in a splendid burst,

Her impatience for the sword swelled with her antici pation of his act, and throwing her arms above her

head, she fairly tore a sword out of the empty air for him, before NOTHUNG had left the tree. IN

HOCHSTER TRUNKENHEIT, in deed, she burst out with the flaming cry of their kinship: "If you are

SIEGMUND, I am SIEGLINDE!" Laughing, sing ing, bounding, exulting,with their passion and their

As the curtain fell, Harsanyi turned to his wife. "At last," he sighed, "somebody with ENOUGH! Enough

voice and talent and beauty, enough physical power. And such a noble, noble style!"

"I can scarcely believe it, Andor. I can see her now, that clumsy girl, hunched up over your piano. I can see

her shoul ders. She always seemed to labor so with her back. And I shall never forget that night when you

The audience kept up its clamor until, after many re appearances with the tenor, Kronborg came before the

cur tain alone. The house met her with a roar, a greeting that was almost savage in its fierceness. The

singer's eyes, sweeping the house, rested for a moment on Harsanyi, and she waved her long sleeve toward

"She OUGHT to be pleased that you are here," said Mrs. Harsanyi. "I wonder if she knows how much she

"She owes me nothing," replied her husband quickly. "She paid her way. She always gave something back,

"I remember you said once that she would do nothing common," said Mrs. Harsanyi thoughtfully.

"Just so. She might fail, die, get lost in the pack. But if she achieved, it would be nothing common. There are

people whom one can trust for that. There is one way in which they will never fail." Harsanyi retired into his

After the second act Fred Ottenburg brought Archie to the Harsanyis' box and introduced him as an old friend

of Miss Kronborg. The head of a musical publishing house joined them, bringing with him a journalist and

the presi dent of a German singing society. The conversation was chiefly about the new SIEGLINDE. Mrs.

Harsanyi was gra cious and enthusiastic, her husband nervous and uncom municative. He smiled

mechanically, and politely an swered questions addressed to him. "Yes, quite so." "Oh, certainly." Every

one, of course, said very usual things with great conviction. Mrs. Harsanyi was used to hearing and uttering

the commonplaces which such occasions de manded. When her husband withdrew into the shadow, she

covered his retreat by her sympathy and cordiality. In reply to a direct question from Ottenburg, Harsanyi

said, flinching, "ISOLDE? Yes, why not? She will sing all the great roles, I should think."

The chorus director said something about "dramatic temperament." The journalist insisted that it was "ex

Ottenburg turned to Harsanyi. "What is it, Mr. Har sanyi? Miss Kronborg says if there is anything in her,

The journalist scented copy and was eager. "Yes, Har sanyi. You know all about her. What's her secret?"

Harsanyi rumpled his hair irritably and shrugged his shoulders. "Her secret? It is every artist's secret,"he

waved his hand,"passion. That is all. It is an open secret, and perfectly safe. Like heroism, it is inimitable

Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness. The stupid believe that

to be truthful is easy; only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is. That afternoon nothing new

came to Thea Kronborg, no enlightenment, no inspiration. She merely came into full possession of things she

had been refining and perfecting for so long. Her inhibitions chanced to be fewer than usual, and, within

herself, she entered into the inheritance that she herself had laid up, into the fullness of the faith she had kept

Often when she sang, the best she had was unavailable; she could not break through to it, and every sort of

dis traction and mischance came between it and her. But this afternoon the closed roads opened, the gates

dropped. What she had so often tried to reach, lay under her hand. She had only to touch an idea to make it

While she was on the stage she was conscious that every movement was the right movement, that her body

was absolutely the instrument of her idea. Not for nothing had she kept it so severely, kept it filled with such

energy and fire. All that deeprooted vitality flowered in her voice, her face, in her very fingertips. She felt

like a tree bursting into bloom. And her voice was as flexible as her body; equal to any demand, capable of

every NUANCE. With the sense of its perfect companionship, its entire trustworthiness, she had been able to

throw herself into the dramatic exigencies of the part, everything in her at its best and everything working

The third act came on, and the afternoon slipped by. Thea Kronborg's friends, old and new, seated about the

house on different floors and levels, enjoyed her triumph according to their natures. There was one there,

whom nobody knew, who perhaps got greater pleasure out of that afternoon than Harsanyi himself. Up in the

top gal lery a grayhaired little Mexican, withered and bright as a string of peppers beside a'dobe door, kept

praying and cursing under his breath, beating on the brass railing and shouting "Bravo! Bravo!" until he was

He happened to be there because a Mexican band was to be a feature of Barnum and Bailey's circus that year.

One of the managers of the show had traveled about the Southwest, signing up a lot of Mexican musicians at

low wages, and had brought them to New York. Among them was Spanish Johnny. After Mrs. Tellamantez

died, Johnny abandoned his trade and went out with his mandolin to pick up a living for one. His

When Thea Kronborg came out of the stage entrance on Fortieth Street, the sky was still flaming with the last

rays of the sun that was sinking off behind the North River. A little crowd of people was lingering about the

doormusicians from the orchestra who were waiting for their comrades, curious young men, and some

poorly dressed girls who were hoping to get a glimpse of the singer. She bowed graciously to the group,

through her veil, but she did not look to the right or left as she crossed the sidewalk to her cab. Had she lifted

her eyes an instant and glanced out through her white scarf, she must have seen the only man in the crowd

who had removed his hat when she emerged, and who stood with it crushed up in his hand. And she would

have known him, changed as he was. His lustrous black hair was full of gray, and his face was a good deal

worn by the EXTASI, so that it seemed to have shrunk away from his shining eyes and teeth and left them

too prominent. But she would have known him. She passed so near that he could have touched her, and he did

not put on his hat until her taxi had snorted away. Then he walked down Broadway with his hands in his

overcoat pockets, wearing a smile which embraced all the stream of life that passed him and the lighted

towers that rose into the limpid blue of the evening sky. If the singer, going home exhausted in her cab, was

wondering what was the good of it all, that smile, could she have seen it, would have answered her. It is the

Here we must leave Thea Kronborg. From this time on the story of her life is the story of her achievement.

The growth of an artist is an intellectual and spiritual development which can scarcely be followed in a

personal narrative. This story attempts to deal only with the sim ple and concrete beginnings which color

and accent an artist's work, and to give some account of how a Moon stone girl found her way out of a

vague, easygoing world into a life of disciplined endeavor. Any account of the loyalty of young hearts to

some exalted ideal, and the passion with which they strive, will always, in some of us, rekindle generous

MOONSTONE again, in the year 1909. The Metho dists are giving an icecream sociable in the grove

about the new courthouse. It is a warm summer night of full moon. The paper lanterns which hang among

the trees are foolish toys, only dimming, in little lurid circles, the great softness of the lunar light that floods

the blue heavens and the high plateau. To the east the sand hills shine white as of old, but the empire of the

sand is grad ually diminishing. The grass grows thicker over the dunes than it used to, and the streets of the

town are harder and firmer than they were twentyfive years ago. The old in habitants will tell you that

sandstorms are infrequent now, that the wind blows less persistently in the spring and plays a milder tune.

The people seated about under the cottonwoods are much smarter than the Methodists we used to know. The

interior of the new Methodist Church looks like a theater, with a sloping floor, and as the congregation

proudly say, "opera chairs." The matrons who attend to serving the refreshments tonight look younger for

their years than did the women of Mrs. Kronborg's time, and the children all look like city children. The little

boys wear "Buster Browns" and the little girls Russian blouses. The coun try child, in madeovers and

At one of the tables, with her Dutchcut twin boys, sits a fairhaired, dimpled matron who was once Lily

Fisher. Her husband is president of the new bank, and she "goes East for her summers," a practice which

causes envy and discontent among her neighbors. The twins are wellbehaved children, biddable, meek, neat

about their clothes, and always mindful of the proprieties they have learned at summer hotels. While they are

eating their ice cream and trying not to twist the spoon in their mouths, a little shriek of laughter breaks

from an adjacent table. The twins look up. There sits a spry little old spinster whom they know well. She has

a long chin, a long nose, and she is dressed like a young girl, with a pink sash and a lace garden hat with pink

rosebuds. She is surrounded by a crowd of boys,loose and lanky, short and thick, who are joking with

"Mamma," one of the twins comes out in a shrill treble, "why is Tillie Kronborg always talking about a

The boys, hearing this question, break into a roar of laughter, the women titter behind their paper napkins,

and even from Tillie there is a little shriek of apprecia tion. The observing child's remark had made every

one suddenly realize that Tillie never stopped talking about that particular sum of money. In the spring, when

she went to buy early strawberries, and was told that they were thirty cents a box, she was sure to remind the

grocer that though her name was Kronborg she didn't get a thousand dollars a night. In the autumn, when she

went to buy her coal for the winter, she expressed amazement at the price quoted her, and told the dealer he

must have got her mixed up with her niece to think she could pay such a sum. When she was making her

Christmas presents, she never failed to ask the women who came into her shop what you COULD make for

anybody who got a thousand dollars a night. When the Denver papers an nounced that Thea Kronborg had

married Frederick Otten burg, the head of the Brewers' Trust, Moonstone people expected that Tillie's

vaingloriousness would take an other form. But Tillie had hoped that Thea would marry a title, and she did

not boast much about Ottenburg, at least not until after her memorable trip to Kansas City to hear Thea

Tillie is the last Kronborg left in Moonstone. She lives alone in a little house with a green yard, and keeps a

fancy work and millinery store. Her business methods are in formal, and she would never come out even at

the end of the year, if she did not receive a draft for a good round sum from her niece at Christmas time. The

arrival of this draft always renews the discussion as to what Thea would do for her aunt if she really did the

right thing. Most of the Moonstone people think Thea ought to take Tillie to New York and keep her as a

companion. While they are feeling sorry for Tillie because she does not live at the Plaza, Tillie is trying not to

hurt their feelings by show ing too plainly how much she realizes the superiority of her position. She tries to

be modest when she complains to the postmaster that her New York paper is more than three days late. It

means enough, surely, on the face of it, that she is the only person in Moonstone who takes a New York

paper or who has any reason for taking one. A foolish young girl, Tillie lived in the splendid sorrows of

"Wanda" and "Strathmore"; a foolish old girl, she lives in her niece's triumphs. As she often says, she just

That night after the sociable, as Tillie tripped home with a crowd of noisy boys and girls, she was perhaps a

shade troubled. The twin's question rather lingered in her ears. Did she, perhaps, insist too much on that

thousand dollars? Surely, people didn't for a minute think it was the money she cared about? As for that,

Tillie tossed her head, she didn't care a rap. They must understand that this money was different.

When the laughing little group that brought her home had gone weaving down the sidewalk through the leafy

shadows and had disappeared, Tillie brought out a rocking chair and sat down on her porch. On glorious, soft

summer nights like this, when the moon is opulent and full, the day submerged and forgotten, she loves to sit

there behind her rosevine and let her fancy wander where it will. If you chanced to be passing down that

Moonstone street and saw that alert white figure rocking there behind the screen of roses and lingering late

into the night, you might feel sorry for her, and how mistaken you would be! Tillie lives in a little magic

world, full of secret satisfactions. Thea Kronborg has given much noble pleasure to a world that needs all it

can get, but to no individual has she given more than to her queer old aunt in Moonstone. The legend of

Kronborg, the artist, fills Tillie's life; she feels rich and exalted in it. What delightful things happen in her

mind as she sits there rocking! She goes back to those early days of sand and sun, when Thea was a child and

Tillie was herself, so it seems to her, "young." When she used to hurry to church to hear Mr. Kronborg's

won derful sermons, and when Thea used to stand up by the organ of a bright Sunday morning and sing

"Come, Ye Disconsolate." Or she thinks about that wonderful time when the Metropolitan Opera Company

sang a week's engagement in Kansas City, and Thea sent for her and had her stay with her at the Coates

House and go to every performance at Convention Hall. Thea let Tillie go through her costume trunks and try

on her wigs and jewels. And the kindness of Mr. Ottenburg! When Thea dined in her own room, he went

down to dinner with Tillie, and never looked bored or absentminded when she chattered. He took her to the

hall the first time Thea sang there, and sat in the box with her and helped her through "Lohengrin." After the

first act, when Tillie turned tearful eyes to him and burst out, "I don't care, she always seemed grand like that,

even when she was a girl. I expect I'm crazy, but she just seems to me full of all them old times!"Ottenburg

was so sympathetic and patted her hand and said, "But that's just what she is, full of the old times, and you

are a wise woman to see it." Yes, he said that to her. Tillie often wondered how she had been able to bear it

when Thea came down the stairs in the wedding robe embroidered in silver, with a train so long it took six

Tillie had lived fiftyodd years for that week, but she got it, and no miracle was ever more miraculous than

that. When she used to be working in the fields on her father's Minnesota farm, she couldn't help believing

that she would some day have to do with the "wonderful," though her chances for it had then looked so

The morning after the sociable, Tillie, curled up in bed, was roused by the rattle of the milk cart down the

street. Then a neighbor boy came down the sidewalk outside her window, singing "Casey Jones" as if he

hadn't a care in the world. By this time Tillie was wide awake. The twin's question, and the subsequent

laughter, came back with a faint twinge. Tillie knew she was shortsighted about facts, but this time Why,

there were her scrap books, full of newspaper and magazine articles about Thea, and halftone cuts,

snapshots of her on land and sea, and photographs of her in all her parts. There, in her parlor, was the

phonograph that had come from Mr. Ottenburg last June, on Thea's birthday; she had only to go in there and

turn it on, and let Thea speak for herself. Tillie finished brushing her white hair and laughed as she gave it a

smart turn and brought it into her usual French twist. If Moon stone doubted, she had evidence enough: in

black and white, in figures and photographs, evidence in hair lines on metal disks. For one who had so often

seen two and two as making six, who had so often stretched a point, added a touch, in the good game of

trying to make the world brighter than it is, there was positive bliss in having such deep foundations of

support. She need never tremble in secret lest she might sometime stretch a point in Thea's favor. Oh, the

comfort, to a soul too zealous, of having at last a rose so red it could not be further painted, a lily so truly

Tillie hurried from her bedroom, threw open the doors and windows, and let the morning breeze blow

In two minutes a cob fire was roaring in her kitchen stove, in five she had set the table. At her household

work Tillie was always bursting out with shrill snatches of song, and as suddenly stopping, right in the

middle of a phrase, as if she had been struck dumb. She emerged upon the back porch with one of these

bursts, and bent down to get her butter and cream out of the icebox. The cat was purring on the bench and

the morningglories were thrust ing their purple trumpets in through the latticework in a friendly way.

They reminded Tillie that while she was waiting for the coffee to boil she could get some flowers for her

breakfast table. She looked out uncertainly at a bush of sweetbriar that grew at the edge of her yard, off

across the long grass and the tomato vines. The front porch, to be sure, was dripping with crimson ramblers

that ought to be cut for the good of the vines; but never the rose in the hand for Tillie! She caught up the

kitchen shears and off she dashed through grass and drenching dew. Snip, snip; the shortstemmed

sweetbriars, salmonpink and goldenhearted, with their unique and inimitable woody perfume, fell into

After she put the eggs and toast on the table, Tillie took last Sunday's New York paper from the rack beside

the cupboard and sat down, with it for company. In the Sunday paper there was always a page about singers,

even in summer, and that week the musical page began with a sympathetic account of Madame Kronborg's

first per formance of ISOLDE in London. At the end of the notice, there was a short paragraph about her

having sung for the King at Buckingham Palace and having been presented with a jewel by His Majesty.

Singing for the King; but Goodness! she was always doing things like that! Tillie tossed her head. All

through breakfast she kept sticking her sharp nose down into the glass of sweetbriar, with the old incredible

lightness of heart, like a child's balloon tugging at its string. She had always insisted, against all evidence,

that life was full of fairy tales, and it was! She had been feeling a little down, perhaps, and Thea had

answered her, from so far. From a common person, now, if you were troubled, you might get a letter. But

Thea almost never wrote letters. She answered every one, friends and foes alike, in one way, her own way,

her only way. Once more Tillie has to re mind herself that it is all true, and is not something she has "made

up." Like all romancers, she is a little terrified at seeing one of her wildest conceits admitted by the hard

headed world. If our dream comes true, we are almost afraid to believe it; for that is the best of all good

When the people on Sylvester Street tire of Tillie's stories, she goes over to the east part of town, where her

legends are always welcome. The humbler people of Moonstone still live there. The same little houses sit

under the cottonwoods; the men smoke their pipes in the front doorways, and the women do their washing in

the back yard. The older women remember Thea, and how she used to come kicking her express wagon along

the side walk, steering by the tongue and holding Thor in her lap. Not much happens in that part of town,

and the people have long memories. A boy grew up on one of those streets who went to Omaha and built up a

great business, and is now very rich. Moonstone people always speak of him and Thea together, as examples

of Moonstone enter prise. They do, however, talk oftener of Thea. A voice has even a wider appeal than a

fortune. It is the one gift that all creatures would possess if they could. Dreary Maggie Evans, dead nearly

twenty years, is still remembered be cause Thea sang at her funeral "after she had studied in Chicago."

However much they may smile at her, the old inhabi tants would miss Tillie. Her stories give them

something to talk about and to conjecture about, cut off as they are from the restless currents of the world.

The many naked little sandbars which lie between Venice and the main land, in the seemingly stagnant

water of the lagoons, are made habitable and wholesome only because, every night, a foot and a half of tide

creeps in from the sea and winds its fresh brine up through all that network of shining water ways. So, into

all the little settlements of quiet people, tidings of what their boys and girls are doing in the world bring real