thing possible was done for her; by the time a surgeon could be brought up from San Francisco, her fractures had begun to knit, and had to be broken over again.

"It was Captain Forrester I wanted to hold my hand when the surgeon had to do things to me. You remember, Neil, he always boasted that I never screamed when they were carrying me up the trail. He stayed at the camp until I could begin to walk, holding to his arm. When he asked me to marry him, he did n't have to ask twice. Do you wonder?" She looked with a smile about the circle, and drew her finger-tips absently across her forehead as if to brush away something, the past or the present, who could tell? The boys were genuinely moved. While she was answering their questions, Neil thought about the first time he ever heard her tell that story. Mr. Dalzell had stopped off with a party of friends from Chicago. Marshall Field and the president of the Union Pacific were among them, he remembered, and they were going through in Mr. Dalzell's private car to hunt in the Black Hills. She had, after all, not changed so much since then. Neil felt to-night that the right man could save her even now. She was still her indomitable self, going through her old part, but only stage-hands were left to listen to her. All those who had shared in fine undertakings and bright occasions were

gone.

87

With the summer months Judge Pomeroy's health improved, and as soon as he was able to be back in his office, Neil began to plan to return to Boston. He would get there the first

of August, and would go to work with a tutor to make up for the months he had lost. It was melancholy time for him. He was in a fever of impatience to be gone, and yet he felt that he was going away forever, and was making the final break with everything that had been dear to him in his boyhood. The people, the very country itself, were changing so fast that there would be nothing to come back to.

He had seen the end of an era, the sunset of the pioneer. He had come upon it when already its glory was nearly spent. So in the buffalo-times a traveler used to come upon the embers of a hunter's fire on the prairie after the hunter was up and gone. The coals would be trampled out, but the ground was warm, and the flattened grass where he had slept and where his pony had grazed told the story.

This was the very end of the roadmaking West. The men who had put plains and mountains under the iron harness were old; some were poor, and even the successful ones were hunting for rest and a brief reprieve from death. It was already gone, that age; nothing could ever bring it back. The taste and smell and song of it, the visions those men had seen in the air and followed-these he had caught in a kind of afterglow in their own faces, and this would always be his.

It was what he most held against Mrs. Forrester that she was not willing to immolate herself, like the widow of all these great men, and die with the pioneer period to which she belonged; that she preferred life on any terms. In the end Neil went away without bidding her good-by. He went away with contempt for her in his heart.

It happened like this, had scarcely the dignity of an episode. It was

nothing, and yet it was everything. Going over to see her one summer evening, he stopped a moment by the dining-room window to look at the honeysuckle. The dining-room door was open into the kitchen, and there Mrs. Forrester stood at a table, making pastry. Ivy Peters came in at the kitchen door, walked up behind her, unconcernedly put both arms around her, his hands meeting over her breast. She did not move, did not look up, but went on rolling out pastry.

Neil went down the hill. "For the last time,” he said as he crossed the bridge in the evening light-"for the last time." And it was even so; he never went up the poplar-bordered road again. He had given her a year of his life, and she had thrown it away. He had helped the captain to die peacefully, he believed; and now it was the captain who seemed the reality. All those years he had thought it was Mrs. Forrester who made that house so different from any other. But ever since the captain's death it was a house where old friends, like his uncle, were betrayed and cast off; where common fellows behaved after their kind and knew a common woman when they saw her.

If he had not had the nature of a spaniel, he told himself, he would never have gone back after the first time. It took two doses to cure him. Well, he had had them! Nothing she could ever do would in the least matter to him again.

tion that her husband's friends cannot help her." And again: "Of Mrs. Forrester, no news is good news. She is sadly broken."

After his uncle's death, Neil heard that Ivy Peters had at last bought the Forrester place, and had brought a wife from Wyoming to live there. Mrs. Forrester had gone West; people supposed to California.

It was years before Neil could think of her without chagrin. But eventually, after she had drifted out of his ken, when he did not know if Daniel Forrester's widow was living or dead, Daniel Forrester's wife returned to him a bright, impersonal memory.

He came to be very glad that he had known her, and that she had had a hand in breaking him into life. He has known pretty women and clever ones since then, but never one like her as she was in her best days. Her eyes, when they laughed for a moment into one's own, seemed to promise a wild delight that he has not found in life. "I know where it is," they seemed to say; "I could show you." He would like to call up the shade of the young Mrs. Forrester, as the witch of Endor called up Samuel's, and challenge it, demand the secret of that ardor; ask her whether she had really found some ever-blooming, ever-burning, everpiercing joy, or whether it was all fine play-acting. Probably she had found no more than another; but she had always the power of suggesting things much lovelier than herself, as the per

"Mrs. Forrester's name is everywhere coupled with Ivy Peters's," the judge wrote. "She does not look happy, and I fear her health is failing, but she has put herself in such a posi

Neil was destined to hear once again of his long-lost lady. One evening as he was going into the dining-room of a Chicago hotel, a broad-shouldered man with an open, sunbrowned face

approached him and introduced himself as one of the boys who had grown up in Sweet Water.

"I'm Ed Elliott, and I thought it must be you. Could we take a table together? I promised an old friend of yours to give a message if I ever ran across you. You remember Mrs. Forrester? Well, I saw her again twelve years after she left Sweet Water, down in Buenos Aires." They sat down and ordered dinner.

"Yes, I was in South America on business. I'm a mining engineer; I spent some time in Buenos Aires. One evening there was a banquet of some sort at one of the big hotels, and I happened to step out of the bar just as a car drove up to the entrance where the guests were going in. I paid no attention until one of the ladies laughed. I recognized her by her laugh; she had n't changed a particle. She was all done up in furs, with a scarf over her head, but I saw her eyes, and then I was sure. I stepped up and spoke to her. She seemed glad to see me, made me go into the hotel, and talked to me until her husband came to drag her away to the dinner. Oh, yes, she was married again, to a rich, cranky old Englishman; Henry Collins was his name. He was born down there, she told me, but she met him in California. She told me they lived on a big stock ranch, and had come down in their car for this banquet. I made inquiries afterward and found the old fellow was quite a character; had been married twice before, once to a Brazilian woman. People said he was rich, but quarrelsome and rather stingy. She seemed to have everything, though. They traveled in a

fine French car, and she had brought her maid along, and he had his valet. No, she had n't changed as much as you'd think. She was a good deal made up, of course, like most of the women down there; plenty of powder, and a little red, too, I guess. Her hair was black, blacker than I remembered it; looked as if she dyed it. She invited me to visit them on their estate, and so did the old man when he came to get her. She asked about everybody, and said, 'If you ever meet Neil Herbert, give him my love, and tell him I often think of him.' She said again: "Tell him things have turned out well for me. Mr. Collins is the kindest of husbands.' I called at your office in New York on my way back from South America, but you were somewhere in Europe. It was remarkable how she'd come up again. She seemed pretty well gone to pieces before she left Sweet Water."

"Do you suppose," said Neil, "that she could be living still? I'd almost make the trip to see her."

"No, she died about three years ago. I know that for certain. After she left Sweet Water, wherever she was, she always sent a check to the Grand Army Post every year to have flowers put on Captain Forrester's grave for Decoration day. Three years ago the post got a letter from the old Englishman, with a draft for the future care of Captain Forrester's grave, 'In memory of my late wife, Marian Forrester Collins." "

"So we may feel sure that she was well cared for to the very end," said Neil. "Thank God for that!"

"I knew you'd feel that way," said Ed Elliott, as a warm wave of feeling passed over his face. "I did."

T

HE little renaissance of poetry

which there has been a hundred historians to scent and chronicle in the United States during the last decade flushed to a dawn in 1912. In that year was founded a magazine for the sole purpose of helping poems into the world; in that year was published an anthology which meant to become an annual, though, as it happened, another annual by another editor took its place the year following. The real poetical event of 1912, however, was the appearance in "The Lyric Year," tentative anthology, of the first outstanding poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. Who that then had any taste of which he can now be proud but remembers the discovery, among the numerous failures and very innumerous successes which made up the volume, of "Renascence," by a girl of twenty whose name none but her friends and a lucky critic or two had heard? After wading through tens and dozens of rhetorical strophes and moral stanzas, it was like suddenly finding wings to come upon these lines: "All I could see from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood;

I turned and looked another way,

And saw three islands in a bay.

So with my eyes I traced the line
Of the horizon, thin and fine,
Straight around till I was come
Back to where I'd started from;
And all I saw from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a
wood."

The diction was so plain, the arrangement so obvious, that the magic of the opening seemed a mystery; and yet the lift and turn of these verses were magical, as if a lark had taken to the air out of a dreary patch of stubble.

Nor did the poem falter as it went on. If it had the movement of a bird's flight, so had it the ease of a bird's song. The poet of this lucid voice had gone through a radiant experience. She had, she said with mystical directness, felt that she could touch the horizon, and found that she could touch the sky. Then infinity had settled down upon her till she could hear

"The ticking of Eternity."

The universe pressed close and crushed her, oppressing her with omniscience and omnisentience; all sin, all remorse, all suffering, all punishment, all pity poured into her, torturing her. The weight drove her into the cool earth,