filled by the spirit of gentle fun. The gray stucco bungalow resounded with professorial gayety and the youthful response from Alayne. She had no intimate friends of her own age. Her parents sufficed. For several years before his death Professor Archer had been engaged in writing a history of the American Revolutionary War, and Alayne had thrown herself with enthusiasm into helping him with the work of research. Her admiration had been aroused for those dogged Loyalists who had left their homes and journeyed northward into Canada to suffer cold and privation for the sake of an idea. It was glorious, she thought, and told her father so. They had argued, and he had called her laughingly, after that, his little Britisher; and she had laughed, too, but she did not altogether like it, for she was proud of being an American. Still, one could see the other person's side of a question.

Mr. Cory had been a lifelong friend of her father's. When Professor Archer died, he came forward at once with his assistance. He helped Alayne to dispose of the bungalow by the golf links, those golf links where Alayne and her father had had many a happy game together, with Mother able to keep her eye on them from the upstairs sitting-room window, looked into the state of her father's financial affairs for her, and gave her work in reading for the publishing house of Cory and Parsons.

After the first blank grief, followed by the agony of realization, had passed, Alayne had taken a small apartment near her work, and night after night she pored over her father's manuscript, correcting, revising, worrying her young brain into fever over some debatable point. Oh, if he had only been there to settle it for her! To explain, to elucidate his own point of view in his precise and impressive accents. In her solitude she could almost see his long, thin scholar's hands turning the pages, and tears swept down her cheeks in a storm, leaving them flushed and hot, so that she would have to go to the window and press her face to the cool pane, or throw it open and lean out, gazing into the unfriendly street below.

The book was published. It created a good impression, and reviewers were perhaps a little kinder to it because of the recent death of the author. It was praised

for its modern liberality. But a few critics pointed out errors and contradictions, and Alayne, holding herself responsible for these, suffered great humiliation. She accused herself of laxness and stupidity. Her dear father's book! She became so white that Mr. Cory was worried about her. At last Mrs. Cory and he persuaded her to share an apartment with a friend of theirs, Rosamund Trent, a commercial artist, a woman of fifty.

When Alayne joined Miss Trent she settled down into a sad tranquillity. She read countless manuscripts, some of them very badly typed, and the literary editor of Cory and Parsons learned to rely on her judgment, especially in books other than fiction. In fiction her taste, formed by her parents, was perhaps too conventional, too fastidious. Many of the things she read in manuscript seemed horrid to her. And they had a disconcerting way of cropping up in her mind afterward, like strange weeds that, even after they are uprooted and thrown away, appear again in unexpected places.

She would sit listening to Rosamund Trent's good-humored chatter, her chin in her curled palm, her eyes fixed on Miss Trent's face, yet all of her was not present in the room. Another Alayne was wandering, crying like a deserted child, through the little bungalow. Sometimes the other Alayne was different not sad and lonely, but wild and questioning. Had life nothing richer for her than this? Reading, reading manuscripts, day in, day out; sitting at night with gaze bent on Miss Trent's chattering face, or going to the Corys' or some other house, meeting people who made no impression on her. Was she never going to have a real friend to whom she could confide everything well, almost everything? Was she never for the first time in her life she asked herself this question in grim earnest was she never going to have a lover?

Oh, she had had admirers! Not many, for she had not encouraged them. If she went out with them she was sure to miss something delightful that was happening at home. If they came to the house they seldom fitted in with the scheme of things. Sexually she was one of those women who develop slowly-who might, under certain

conditions, marry, rear a family, and never have the wellspring of her passions unbound. When the manuscript of young Whiteoak's book was given her to read, Alayne was in a mood of eager receptivity to beauty. The beauty, the simplicity, the splendid abandon of Eden's lyrics filled her with a new joy. When the book appeared she had an odd feeling of possession toward it. She rather hated seeing Miss Trent's large plump hands caressing it, 'Such a ducky little book, my dear!' - and she hated to hear her read from it, stressing the most striking phrases, sustaining the last word. of each line with an upward lilt of her throaty voice-'Sheer beauty, that bit, is n't it, Alayne, dear?'

She felt ashamed of herself for grudging Miss Trent her pleasure in the book, but she undoubtedly did grudge it.

She rather dreaded meeting Eden for fear he would be disappointing. Suppose he were short and thickset, with beady black eyes and a long upper lip! Suppose he had a hatchet face and wore horn-rimmed spectacles!

Well, however he looked, his mind was beautiful. But she had quaked as she entered the reception room.

When she saw him standing tall and fair, with his crest of golden hair, his sensitive features, his steady but rather wistful smile, she was trembling, almost overcome with relief. He seemed to carry some of the radiance of his poetry about his own person. Those brilliant blue eyes in that tanned face! Oh, she could not have borne it had he not been beautiful!

It seemed as natural to her that they two should seek a quiet corner together, that he should, when the opportunity offered, take her hands in his and press ecstatic kisses upon them, as that two drops of dew should melt into one, or two sweet chords blend.

It seemed equally natural to her to say yes when, two weeks later, he asked her to marry him.

He had not intended to ask her that. He realized in his heart that it was madness to ask her, unless they agreed to a long engagement, but the autumn night was studded with stars, and heavy with the teasing scents of burning leaves and salt air.

His love for her was a poem. Their life together would be an exquisite, enchanted poem, a continual inspiration for him. He could not do without her. The thought of holding her intimately in his arms gave him the tender sadness of a love poem to be written. . . yet he must not ask her to marry him. He must not and he did. 'Alayne, my beautiful darling - will you marry me?' 'Eden, Eden She could scarcely speak, for the love that now filled her heart that had been drained empty of love almost drowned her senses. 'Yes - I will marry you, if you want me. I want you with all my soul.'

X

Eden had begun the letter to Meg, telling her of his engagement, in much trepidation. But as he wrote he gained confidence, and told of Alayne's beauty, her endearing qualities, her influential friends who would be able to do so much for him in the publishing world. And she was independent not an heiress, not the rich American girl of fiction, still she would be a help, not a handicap to him. Meg was to believe that she was absolutely desirable.

The family at Jalna, always credulous, with imaginations easily stirred, snatched with avidity at the bare suggestion of means. They settled it among themselves that Alayne was a rich girl, and that Eden for some reason wished to depreciate her wealth. 'He's afraid some of us will want to borrow a few bucks,' sneered Piers.

'He'd have never been such a fool as to marry if the girl had not had lots of brass,' growled Nicholas.

'He was bound to attract some cultivated rich woman with his talents, his looks, and his lovely manners,' said Meg, her smile of ineffable, calm sweetness curving her lips. 'I shall be very nice to her. Who knows, she may do something for the younger boys! American women are noted for their generosity. Wakefield is delicate and he's very attractive. Finch is -'

'Neither delicate nor attractive,' put in Renny, grinning; and Finch, who was wrestling in a corner with his Latin, blushed a deep pink, and gave a snort of mingled amusement and embarrassment.

Grandmother shouted: 'When is she coming? I must wear my cream-colored cap with the purple ribbons!'

Piers said: 'Eden always was an impulsive fool. I'll bet he's making a fool marriage.' He rather hoped that Eden was, for he found it hard to endure the thought of Eden's making a marriage which would be welcomed by the whole family while he himself was continually made to feel that he had made a mess of his life.

Meg wrote her letter to Alayne, inviting her to come to Jalna for as long as she liked. She was to consider Jalna her home. All the family were so happy in dear Eden's happiness. Dear Grandmother sent her love. ('Have you got that down, Meggie? That I send my love? Underline it. No mistake.')

Alayne was deeply touched by this letter. She took Eden up the Hudson to visit her two aunts, the sisters of her father, who lived in a house with a pinkish roof, overlooking the river. They were delighted with Alayne's young Canadian. He had such an easy, pleasant voice, he was so charmingly deferential to them. Even while they regretted that Alayne was going away, for a time at least, they were exhilarated, elated by her bliss. They took Eden to their hearts, and, seated in their little austerely perfect living room, they asked him innumerable questions about his family.

'Let me see, there are six of you, are n't there? How very interesting. Just imagine Alayne having brothers and sisters! She used always to be praying for them when she was little, did n't you, Alayne?'

"There is only one sister,' said Eden. 'She wrote Alayne such a kind letter,' murmured Miss Helen.

Miss Harriet proceeded: 'And your elder brother went through all the terrors of the War, did he not?'

'Yes, he was through the War,' replied Eden, and he thought of Renny's rich vocabulary.

'And the brother next to you is married, Alayne tells us. I do hope his wife and Alayne will be friends. Is she about Alayne's age? Have you known her long?'

'She is seventeen. I've known her all my life. She's the daughter of a neighbor.' His mind flew for an instant to the reception

given to Piers and Pheasant when they returned to Jalna after their marriage. He remembered the way poor young Pheasant had howled and Piers had stood holding his bleeding ear.

'I trust Alayne and she will be congenial. Then there are the two younger brothers. Tell us about them.'

'Well, Finch is rather a -oh, he's just at the hobbledehoy period, Miss Archer. We can hardly tell what he'll be. At present he's immersed in his studies. Wake is a pretty little chap. You'd quite like him. He is too delicate to go to school, and has all his lessons with our rector. I'm afraid he's very indolent, but he's an engaging young scamp.'

'I am sure Alayne will love him. And she will have uncles, too. I am glad there are no aunts. Yes, Alayne, we were saying only this morning we are glad there are no aunts. We really want no auntly opposition in loving you!'

"Then,' put in Miss Helen, 'there is Eden's remarkable grandmother. Ninetynine, did you say, Eden? And all her faculties almost unimpaired. It is wonderful.' 'Yes, a regular old · yes, an amazing old lady, Grandmother is.' And he suddenly saw her grinning at him, the graceless ancient, with her cap askew, Boney perched on her shoulder, rapping out obscene Hindu oaths in his raucous voice. He groaned inwardly and wondered what Alayne would think of his family.

He had written asking Renny to be best man for him. Renny had replied: 'I have neither the time, the togs, nor the tin for such a bust-up. But I enclose a check for my wedding present to you which will help to make up for my absence. I am glad Miss Archer has money. Otherwise I should think you insane to tie yourself up at this point in your career, when you seem to be going in several directions at once and arriving nowhere. However, good luck to you and my very best regards to the lady. Your aff. bro. Renny.'

The check was sufficient to pay for the honeymoon trip and to take them home to Jalna. Eden, with his head among the stars, thanked God for that.

They were married in the austerely perfect living room of Alayne's aunts' house

on the Hudson. The Corys, Rosamund Trent, and the other friends at the wedding repast thought, and said, that they had never seen a lovelier couple.

As they motored to New York to take their train Eden said: 'Darling, I have never met so many well-behaved people in my life. Darling, let us be wild, and half mad and delirious with joy! I'm tired of being good.'

She hugged him to her. She loved him intensely, and she longed with great fervor to experience life.

XI

Wakefield slept late that morning, just when he had intended to be about early. When he opened his eyes he found that Renny's head was not on the pillow next his as usual. He was not even dressing. He was gone, and Wake had the bed and the room to himself. He slept with Renny because he sometimes had a 'bad turn' in the night, and it was to his eldest brother he clung at such times.

He spread-eagled himself on the bed, taking up all the room he could, and lay luxuriously a few minutes rejoicing in the fact that he did not have to go to Mr. Fennel's for lessons on this day because it had been proclaimed a holiday by Grandmother. It was the day on which Eden and his bride were expected to arrive at Jalna. Their train was to reach the city at nine that morning and Piers had already motored to fetch them the twenty-five miles to Jalna, where a great dinner was already in preparation.

The loud wheezing that preceded the striking of the grandfather's clock in the upstairs hall now began. Wake listened. After what seemed a longer wheeze than usual the clock struck nine. The train carrying the bride and groom must at this moment be arriving at the station. Wakefield had seen pictures of wedding parties, and he had a vision of Eden traveling in a top hat and a long-tailed coat with a white flower in his buttonhole, seated beside his bride, whose face showed but faintly through a voluminous veil and who carried an immense bouquet of orange blossoms. He did wish that Meg had allowed him to go in the

VOL. 140-NO. 1

car to meet them. It seemed too bad that such a lovely show should be wasted on Piers, who had not seemed at all keen about meeting them.

Wake thought that he had better give his rabbit hutches a thorough cleaning, for probably one of the first things the bride would wish to inspect would be his rabbits. It would be some time before they arrived, for they were to have breakfast in town.

He began to kick the bedclothes from him. He kicked them with all his might till he had nothing over him, then he lay quite still a moment, his small dark face turned impassively toward the ceiling, before he leaped out of bed and ran to the window.

It was a day of thick yellow autumn sunshine. A circular bed of nasturtiums around two old cedar trees burned like a slow fire. The lawn still had a film of heavy dew drawn across it, and a procession of bronze turkeys, led by the red-faced old cock, left a dark trail where their feet had brushed it.

'Gobble, gobble, gobble,' came from the cock, and his wattles turned from red to purple. He turned and faced his hens, and wheeled before them, dropping his wings with a metallic sound.

Wake shouted from the window: 'Gobble, gobble, gobble! Get off the lawn! I say, get off the lawn!'

'Clang, clang, clang,' resounded the gobbler's note of anger, and the hens made plaintive piping sounds.

'I suppose you think,' retorted Wakefield, 'that you're fifteen brides and a groom. Well, you're not! You're turkeys, and you'll be eaten, first thing you know. The real bride and groom will eat you, so there!'

'Gobble, gobble, gobble.'

The burnished procession passed into the grape arbor. Between purple bunches of grapes Wake could see the shine of plumage, the flame of tossing wattles.

It was a lovely morning! He tore off his pajamas, and, stark naked, ran round and round the room. He stopped breathless before the washstand, where the brimming basin foaming with shaving lather showed how complete had been Renny's preparations for the bride and groom.

Wakefield took up the shaving soap and the shaving brush, and immersed the brush in the basin. He made a quantity of fine, fluffy, and altogether delightful lather. First he decorated his face, then produced a nice epaulette for each shoulder. Then he made a collar for his round brown neck. Next his two little nipples attracted him. He adorned them as if with the filling from two cream puffs. In order he decorated all the more prominent features of his small person. By twisting about before the mirror he managed to do even his back. It took most of the shaving stick, but the effect when his toilet was completed was worth all the trouble.

He stood in rapt admiration before the glass, astonished at what a little ingenuity and a lot of lather could do. He pictured himself receiving the bride and groom in this simple yet effective attire. He was sure that Alayne would think it worth while traveling all the way from New York to see a sight like this.

He was lost in revery when a smothered scream disturbed him. It was uttered by Mrs. Wragge, who stood in the doorway, one hand clapped to her mouth, the other carrying a slop pail.

'My Gawd!' she cried. 'Wot an 'orrible sight! Ow, wot a turn it give me! My 'eart's doawn in my boots and my stumick's in the top of my 'ead!'

She was too funny, standing there, redfaced and open-mouthed. Wakefield could not refrain from doing something to her. He danced toward her, and before she realized the import of the brandished shaving brush she had a snowy meringue of lather fairly between the eyes and down the bridge of the nose.

With a scream, this time unsmothered, Mrs. Wragge dropped the pail of slops and pawed blindly at her ornate face. Meg, giving a last satisfied examination of Eden's room, which had been prepared for the bridal pair, hurried toward the sounds of distress from her handmaiden, and, catching the little boy by the ankle just as he was disappearing under the big four-poster, dragged him forth and administered three sharp slaps.

When Wakefield descended the stairs half an hour later his expression was somewhat subdued, but he carried himself with dignity, and he was conscious of looking extremely well in his best Norfolk suit and a snowy Eton collar.

As he passed the door of his grandmother's room he could hear her saying in a cajoling tone to Boney: "Say "Alayne" now, Boney! "Pretty Alayne"! Say "Alayne"! Say "Hail Columbia"!" Then her voice was drowned by the raucous tones of Boney uttering a few choice Hindu curses.

Wakefield smiled and entered the dining room. He knew that if he rang the bell Rags would bring him a dish of porridge from the kitchen. It was an old silver bell in the shape of a little fat lady. He loved it, and handled it caressingly a moment before ringing it long and clearly.

He went to the head of the basement stairs and listened. He could hear Rags rattling things on the stove. He heard a saucepan being scraped. Nasty, sticky, dried-up old porridge! He heard Rags's step on the brick floor approaching the stairway. Lightly he glided to the clothes cupboard and hid himself inside the door, just peeping through a narrow crack while Rags mounted the stairs and disappeared into the dining room. Wakefield smiled slyly as he glided down the stairs into the basement, leaving Rags and the porridge in the dining room alone. On the kitchen table he found a plate of cold toast and a saucer of anchovy paste. Taking a slice of toast and the anchovy paste, he trotted out of the kitchen and along the brick passage into the coal cellar. He heard Rags clattering down the kitchen stairs, muttering as he came. A window in the coal cellar stood open, and, mounted on an empty box, he found he could easily put his breakfast out on the ground and climb out after it.

He carried his toast and anchovy paste to the old carriage house, and sought a favorite retreat of his. This was a ponderous closed carriage that had been sent for to England by Grandfather Whiteoak when he and Grandmother had first built Jalna. It had a great shell-like body, massive