''I thought you might need this more than I do," she said, and handed him the razor. Her pixie smile twinkled mischievously and they both laughed.

"I want to thank you for the presents," she said politely.

"Oh, you're quite welcome," said Richard, charmed by her quaint manner.

"People often throw things on the stage when they like the act," she explained, "but not candy. It was very good candy." She said this earnestly, her eyes fixed upon his well-filled plate.

Suddenly he realized that she was hungry.

"Won't you join me for dinner?" he asked, as courteously as though she were twice his age instead of half.

"Thank you. I don't care if I do." And slipping into the chair beside him with a nonchalance that was both humorous and pathetic, she dropped her adult manner and fell upon the plate of food set before her as voraciously as a hound puppy.

He watched her as she ate. It was impossible to guess her age. She might have been older or younger than she looked. In spite of a coltish thinness, she was exquisitely molded. Her dirty little face was lovely in its structure. A dimple at the corner of her mouth gave that pixie quality to her smile; but the hue of her chin, the tilt of her nose, and the curve of brow and temple held promise of beaut)' to come.

But Richard saw nothing of that. He saw only a scrap of a girl bolting her food like a starved animal, and the sight made him indignant.

"How old are you?"

"I don't know."

"Don't know?"

"I've been ten years old on the handbills now for two seasons. And I seem to remember being nine for quite a while. It's my private belief I'm past twelve." She winked at him merrily over the rim of her mug as she drained the last drop of milk.

Then she pushed back her plate mih a sigh of repletion.

"I hope my appetite didn't shock you. This is the first time I've eaten today."

"What!"

"I'm being disciphned, you know."

"For what?"

"Cutting a show yesterday. It was so hot I went swimming in the pond. I didn't get back in time."

Richard's indignation boiled. Any man who would force a growing child to stand for hours without food in her stomach should be tarred and feathered.

"It's a wonder you didn't faint."

"I did. But it didn't do any good. Pete saw I was faking."

"Is Pete your father?"

She gave him a withering glance. "Do I look like I belonged to that tramp? My father was an artist. And my mother was a lady."

It might have been idle boasting, but Richard preferred to believe it. There was breeding in every line of her fragile body.

"Where are your parents?"

"Dead. My father had a beautiful act. Played nothing but theaters. Pete worked for him and after he died stole his props, his act, even his name."

"Pete is the magician, Thorndyke?"

She nodded scornfully. "But his name isn't Thorndyke. It's McGraw."

"And what's your name?"

"My father called me Thorne, just to round out the act. But his name wasn't Thorndyke really. I don't know what it was."

A nameless waif, that was all. With an intrepid spirit and a dangerous promise of beauty to come. He wondered with queer anxiety what would become of her.

"Is Pete good to you?"

"He is when he's not drunk. But he gets drunk every night."

"Why do you stay with such a man? Why don't you run away?"

She demanded practically, "Where to?"

"Surely there are kind people who would give a little girl like you a home."

"Name one," was the shrewd rejoinder.

Richard was silent.

When they came out of the fry tent he asked if there was anything else she would like and she promptly replied, "Yes. I want to ride on the merry-go-round." She had been at the fair a week and watched other children ride the fascinating ring, but not once had she set foot in one of the gilded chariots.

Richard bought a sheaf of tickets, and the two of them climbed aboard. For the first trip she kept her eyes fixed on the man in the center who rode round and round the central pole on a big white horse, propelling the carrousel. But after that her dizziness subsided and she was able to watch the revolving landscape about her. She did not talk; the music of the calliope drowned conversation. But she smiled at Richard from time to time and gave him moist, friendly pressures of the hand.

When their tickets were all used up she confessed she had had enough.

"If I go again I'll lose my dinner, and I can't afford to do that."

They played chuck-a-luck. They lost fifty cents on the shell game. They watched half a dozen men and boys try to catch the greased pig. They consumed quantities of molasses taffy and popcorn and pink lemonade. They finished off the afternoon at the races.

"I hope you won't be late again for your show," Richard said dubiously when this last jaunt was proposed.

"I might as well be killed for a sheep as a lamb," was the philosophical retort.

It was late afternoon when they parted in front of the hokey-pokey stand. He told her simply and honestly that he had never had such a good time in his life.

"Me too, I've had a swell time," she mumbled, her mouth too full for articulation. "Good-by." And she was gone, leaving him suddenly conscious of being alone.

It was late when he turned homeward. The various shows and concessions were 'being dismantled, for it was the last day of the fair and a storm was brewing. He mounted his horse and rode slowly around the edge of the crowd milling toward the gates.

As he passed the magician's wagon he caught the sound of blows and sobbing. He spurred his horse around behind the wagon and in another moment he was on the ground, grappling with a total stranger. Never had Pete McGraw received such a thrashing as the one that descended on him from the fists of a man he had never seen before in his life.

"If you lay a hand on her again I'll break every bone in vour body!"

The luckless prestidigitator struggled to his feet and spat out teeth.

"I'll learn her to cut shows," he muttered, and then demanded not unreasonably, "What the hell's it your business?"

"If you lost money by her absence this afternoon I'll settle it. How much does she owe you?"

A crafty gleam lighted Pete's unclosed eye. "You mean for cutting this show?"

Suddenly Richard knew the child could never go back to this man.

"For cutting all your shows for the rest of her life. I'm taking her home with me."

There was a slight business transaction then, consisting of the transfer of all Richard's available cash to Pete's pocket. Truth to tell, the man was glad to be rid of the girl. He had always feared that when she grew older she would claim her father's properties and oust him from the act, for she was far cleverer than he. Now he was sole proprietor of Thorndyke, the Magician.

As Richard rode home with the child behind him, his mind struggled with the problem of how best to report his rash act to Abigail. He explained to Thorne that his wife did not approve of shows and play acting and it might be better not to mention her connection with them. The threatened storm caught them before they reached home. When they came to Little Raccoon they found the bridge out and were compelled to ford the swollen stream. This gave Thorne an idea. The story of the wreck of a covered wagon and rescue of its sole survivor was a product of her creative genius. And its recital was proof of Richard Tomlinson's histrionic ability.

To their joint relief the story was accepted, and from that day to this neither Richard nor Thorne had divulged the truth about her background.

When he had finished the story Judith said, "You'd never forgive yourself, Mr. Tomlinson, if you sent that child away."

The look he gave her was eloquent assurance that she had said what he wanted to hear.

"I think, though, your wife should be told the truth," Judith went on. "If she knew Thorne's early history it might put an end to talk about witches. I wish you'd let me tell this to her. Maybe I could convince her she has nothing to fear."

He said eagerly, "Do you think you could?"

"I could try," said Judith, and rose to say good night.

Impulsively he put out his hand and clasped hers.

"I don't know how to thank you, Judith."

They stood for a moment in silence, hand clasping hand.

Then very gently she withdrew her hand and said good night and went out and closed the door. But her heart beat fast as she climbed the stairs. For he had held her hand. And he had called her Judith, without the "Miss."

CHAPTER 7

Jesse Moffat's tongue could not be bridled. Before sundown of the next day every man, woman, and child from Timberley to Woodridge had heard of the mysterious death of Henry Schook's cow and how Thorne Tomlinson had drawn milk from a cucumber named Flossie. They had learned about a doll she had made and dressed in a scrap of Abigail Tomlinson's wrapper. They heard how the sick woman had been seized with a violent illness when she discovered pins stuck into the doll's body.

By nightfall Saturday, it was being openly talked in the public square at Woodridge that Richard Tomlinson's wife was dying of witchcraft practiced by the elfin foundling whom he had brought into his home.

Mitch Rucker, a distant cousin of the Tomlinsons, stood on the very steps of the academy and related to all who would listen how he had told his cousin Richard time and again that there was something queer about that child and he'd better get rid of her. Mitch Rucker's words carried weight because he was a war veteran and had been at Appomattox. To be sure, he had done little since except stand around and talk (he found it uncomfortable to sit down), telling over and over how he had driven an ammunition wagon for four years and never got a scratch until the very last day of the fighting. But he was a hero for all that, and when he declared his belief that the girl at Timberley was a witch his words carried the ring of authority.

They also carried to the ears of the schoolmaster. John Barclay, usually the mildest of men, exploded when he heard Mitch Rucker's talk.

"I forbid you to repeat such malicious gossip."

"You forbid? Since when does a schoolmaster decide what fighting men shall think?"

"I'm not deciding. I'm merely asking that you do think and stop spreading fantastic lies. I was at Timberley last night. I happen to know there's not a word of truth in this wild tale that's going about."

"Henry Schook's cow died, didn't she?"

"Yes, but "

"And that girl got milk from a cucumber."

"She played a trick—a sleight-of-hand trick. It had nothing to do with Schook's cow. Use your head, Mitch. You're not superstitious, I hope."

Mitch Rucker's retort became a classic: "I went through four years of fighting without getting a scratch, without eating anything stronger than mule meat. And then, by golly, on the last day I got a bullet in my behind. And you ask me if I'm superstitious!"

The talk reached Lucius Goff as he was boarding the evening train for Terre Haute. Bombarded with queries about alleged table tipping, he airily equivocated:

"Nothing to it. We played and sang and pulled a few tricks of parlor magic which frightened Mrs. Tomlinson. I know nothing about anybody's cow."

Dr. Caxton, assailed by direct questioning, bluntly told people to mind their own business. He admitted having been called to treat Abigail Tomlinson. She had had a nervous spell but otherwise was in sound health. He disclaimed any knowledge of dead cows or childish pranks. He professed total ignorance on the subject of cucumbers stuck with toothpicks, or dolls stuck with pins. At mention of  witchcraft he snorted, blew his nose, and said, "Damnation!"

When the story came to the blacksmith shop it was greeted with stolid silence. Not until late afternoon, when a red-whiskered man strode into the shop, did Doc Baird lay down

his tools and give heed to a questioner. For the man was Otis Huse, a lawyer and near relative of Abigail Tomlinson. He could cause Richard trouble if he had a mind. So for his friend's sake Doc Baird gave a brief account of the occurrences at Timberley the night before.

"All this talk can be laid to Jesse Moffat. Jesse is a stupid fellow and likes to feel important. Children's pranks and a cow dropping dead made a good yarn. So he lost no time in spreading it."

"What about my cousin's strange seizure?"

"Your cousin, Mr. Huse, has been having strange seizures ever since I've known her," said Doc calmly. "If there's any persecution going on at Timberley, it's Richard, not his wife, who's the victim."

He regretted afterward that he had let his feeling get the better of him. For Huse's sandy face flushed ominously, and he left the shop without another word. Doc watched from his doorway and saw him turn into the parsonage of the Methodist Church.

The minister, an easygoing, kindly gentleman (admittedly not much of a preacher), listened while his visitor talked. He had heard about the gossip that was sweeping the town but had decided to ignore it. Upon Otis Huse's sharp insistence that there was more to it than gossip, he said mildly:

"Surely, Mr. Huse, a man of your mental caliber puts no credence in witchcraft."

"I'm not talking about witchcraft. I'm talking about the situation at Tomlinson's. I think you, Brother Jameson, as pastor of the church, ought to do something about it."

Mr. Jameson sighed. People were always asking him to meddle in other people's business.

"What can I do, Mr. Huse?"

"You can find a home for that girl Tomlinson insisted on taking into his family."

"That's easier said than done."

"Doesn't the church help support an orphanage near Green-castle? I seem to recall being asked to contribute to it."

There was such a place. The minister had once talked to Mr. Tomlinson about the orphanage. He had been opposed to sending the little girl there.

"It's your duty to talk to him again," said the lawyer harshly. "I'm convinced my cousin will never be well as long as that girl is in the house."

Mr. Jameson made no promises, but the next morning at the preaching service he looked expectantly toward the Tomlinson pew. Neither Richard, his wife, nor his mother was present. There were only young Will Tomlinson and the three children, besides the schoolteacher who was their boarder.

Mr. Jameson purposed to speak to Will Tomlinson after church, but before he could reach him the young man was out of the building. When the minister finally made his handshaking way to the door, only the schoolteacher was in sight. She had come back for a reticule left in the pew.

"Miss Amory—if you please—just a moment "

"Oh, good morning, Mr. Jameson. You'll pardon my haste. The others are waiting for me in the surrey."

"I wanted to inquire about Miss Abigail. How is she?"

"Too ill to come out this morning, Mr. Jameson."

"Is it anything serious?"

For a moment the minister saw—or fancied he saw—a look of guilt in the young woman's eyes. And then it was gone and her gaze was clear and candid.

"We hope not, Mr. Jameson, though we're all worried about her."

He expressed his sympathy and concern and said that he would be out to see her. Miss Amory thanked him and said that she was sure a visit from her pastor would do Mrs. Tomlinson good.

The minister watched with curious interest the trim figure of the schoolmistress as she crossed the church lawn and climbed into the Tomlinson buggy. There was an odd exuberance in her walk, a touch of proprietorship in the way she took her place on the back seat with Richard's children. The little girl who was the subject of all this controversy was on the front seat with young Will.

And then Mr. Jameson realized that other people were waiting to shake his hand. He was forced to put the Tomlinsons out of his mind.

CHAPTER 8

The Christmas season was upon them. Under ordinary circumstances the house would have been filled with company and much time and thought devoted to the festivities for which Timberley was noted. But this year there were neither guests nor merrymakings.

Judith, with the help of young Will, arranged a tree at the schoolhouse to which all the neighborhood flocked, bringing gifts for each other to hang upon its branches. There was also a larger tree at the church in Woodridge on Christmas night. Again it was Judith and Will Tomlinson, in company with the Turners and Mitchells, who took the children to see Santa Claus. He came in through the basement (on account of the stovepipe) and bore a remarkable resemblance to Jesse Moffat.

But at Timberley there was neither tree nor Santa Claus. There was only the abundant feast-day dinner, for which the weary, sorely tried family had little appetite and of which Abigail refused to partake.

From the moment of her alarm on that fateful Friday evening she had failed rapidly. For Richard still refused to send

Thorne away. And Judith continued to support him in the stand he was taking.

"If you give in to her now you will be a slave for the rest of your life. There is no tyranny like that of the chronic invalid. When your wife realizes you can't be coerced she'll begin eating again and get well."

"You don't think she's in any real danger?" He asked this question repeatedly. Judith always reassured him.

Once he told her, "I feel as if you were the only friend I had left."

His entire family—mother, brother, sisters, and brothers-in-law—were beginning to urge him to get rid of the child who seemed, by some strange alchemy, to be responsible for his wife's condition. Judith alone upheld him in his determination.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," he said.

These were precious days to Judith. In a house where gloom and anxiety darkened every face, where laughter was hushed because a woman lay wasting away, the lonely schoolteacher lived in a world of secret happiness. Heretofore Richard Tomlinson had turned, in all the trials of his hfe, to his mother. Now he turned to a woman he barely knew.

If Ann Tomlinson felt any resentment, she did not show it. She was too generous to feel jealousy, too honestly concerned for her son to add to his distress by any word of her ovm. She did not understand her daughter-in-law's condition. She accepted the doctor's diagnosis that there was nothing physically wrong with Abigail. But Miss Ann had seen too many people die not to recognize the face of death afar off.

She appealed, in her usual direct manner, to Judith.

"I know you're doing what you think is right. Miss Judith, in befriending a homeless child."

Judith had taken Thorne into her own room since the night she had talked with Richard.

"None of us has any feeling against the girl," Miss Ann went on, "nor do we begrudge her a home. But under the circumstances, she ought not to be here. You're making it difficult for the rest of us."

"I'm only doing what Mr. Richard asked me to," said Judith.

His mother replied, "But he doesn't understand that his wife is dying. You and I do."

The two women looked at each other in silence. Then the eyes of the younger woman fell.

All this time Abigail lay upon her bed, refusing to eat, growing thinner day by day, until it seemed that nothing but the clawlike hands and burning eyes and dark red braids of hair remained of the wasted body under the bed quilts. She was proud of her quilts, some of which were made entirely of silk and satin pieces hoarded for years. They were usually kept in a big oak chest with some of her family heirlooms. But now she had them all brought out and piled upon her bed because she complained of being cold. There was a fire in the room day and night, but the snows of January were now piled thick upon the window ledges, and her starved body was always cold.

The January snows thawed under the first pale suns of February. The false spring froze in the icy blasts of March. But Abigail never rose from her bed after the night Thorne made the cucumber cow.

Some of the family sat in her room all the time. They took turns sitting with Abigail. All except Thorne. Great care was taken that Thorne's face was never glimpsed by the woman lying in the tall oak bed. Thorne was forbidden to pass by the windows on that side of the house. She was made to go round by the road when returning from school, instead of taking the short cut through the lane. Her name was never mentioned. Her presence in the house was tacitly ignored.

But Abigail knew she was there.

Day after day, to each member of the family, she put the question: "She's still here, isn't she?"

Being Tomlinsons, they did not lie. "The child is not bothering you, Abigail. She keeps out of your way."

"She doesn't have to see me to kill me. All she needs do is torture that doll. If she isn't doing things to that doll, why won't she tell you where it is?"

The disappearance of the doll was a mystery. Thorne insisted that she had never seen it since the evening she brought it to Rodgie. The little boys were questioned. A thorough search of the house failed to produce it. But Abigail's imagination licked ceaselessly at the doll as a dog's tongue licks at a sore.

She had other company besides the family: neighbors from the countryside, members of the church where she had once been an active leader, and the minister, Mr. Jameson. As time went on she took a morbid pleasure in having visitors, for to all who came she talked about the doll and how she was dying from witchcraft as Henry Schook's cow had died. It was very embarrassing to the family.

Henry Schook himself came one afternoon, a tall gaunt scarecrow of a man, clean-brushed as though for Sunday, and with him his lean work-worn wife, wearing her best bonnet. The Schooks had had nothing but ill luck since coming into the state, and the loss of their cow was a serious calamity. Privately they were ready to believe that not only Flossie but their whole enterprise was bewatched. But they had heard of Abigail's strange obsession and they had come out of the kindness of their hearts to explain that their cow had undoubtedly eaten poisonweed before coming to the Timberley pasture.

"We lost three cows from it before putting Flossie on your land. Miss Abigail," said Henry Schook. "I said to Marthy then, 'Maybe we can save Flossie.' And she said, Trovided she ain't already got the weed in her belly.' Those were her very words. Weren't they, Marthy?"

"I said stomach," corrected his spouse. "But the cow had weed sickness on her. That I am sure."

Abigail fixed her hollow eyes on the well-meaning pair and demanded, "How much did my husband pay you for coming over here and telling me this tale?"

The Schooks were hurt and embarrassed. They took their departure soon after.

The minister happened to be calling that same afternoon. He had been a witness of the Schooks' kindly effort and dismal failure to relieve Abigail's fear. He appeared to be unmoved by either. He sat silent throughout, watching the schoolteacher, who had brought her work downstairs and was grading papers at a small table near the window.

When the other visitors had gone Mr. Jameson said, "I wonder whatever became of that doll Mrs. Tomlinson seems so distressed about?"

The schoolmistress, apparently absorbed in her task, started nervously and dropped a sheaf of papers.

Then she answered coolly enough, "I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Jameson," and went on with her work.

But the minister had surprised a look in her eyes he had seen there once before.

Abigail had days when her flickering strength revived and she would ask to be propped up in bed and given her piecework. This was her favorite employment and consisted in cutting out quilt pieces with a pair of very sharp scissors. She found the same enjoyment in slicing odd shapes from a scrap of cloth that a child finds in cutting out paper dolls. She liked to display her skill in this handiwork to Judith.

The schoolteacher was still her choice of companions. She no longer looked upon her as an ally against Thorne, for nothing escaped her eyes and ears, and she knew that Judith was upholding Richard in his stand. But she derived a perverse satisfaction from discussing with the schoolmistress the inevitability of her own death.

"I'm dying. You know I'm dying," she would say, grimly

triumphant, almost as though she were wilhng to die to prove her point. "I'm worse than I was yesterday. You can't deny it."

Judith would answer dogmatically, "If you persist in thinking you are worse you create conditions for it. Have you forgotten what I read to you yesterday?"

With Richard's permission she was reading to Abigail from the books in her father's trunk, in the hope that the invalid might be made to understand the power of mental suggestion.

"You read me the book on black magic yesterday."

"To show you how the victim's mind can trick him into anything."

"Do you think my mind can trick me into thinking I'm choking?"

This choking sensation was Abigail's latest symptom. It dated from one afternoon when Judith had described rather vividly the sufferings of a woman she had once known who was dying of a malignant throat ailment.

"Certainly your mind can trick you. There's nothing wrong with your throat."

"I'm having the same symptoms that woman had."

"Of course you are. I tried that story out on you just to see how impressionable you were. This proves it's all in your mind. Because you never had those symptoms until I told you how that woman complained of a sensation like a string around her throat choking her to death."

Abigail's eyes grew cunning. "I'll bet if we could find that doll we'd find a string tied round its neck so tight it's choking me.

Judith said, "That's just another symptom of hysteria," and smiled almost complacently.

"You think I'm crazy," said Abigail, "but you'll see. Wait till she begins practicing her tricks on you."

When her listener refused to snap at this bait she went on:

"You're befriending her because you want to please Richard. But the time will come when you'll hate her—just as I do."

A sharp slash of the scissors punctuated every phrase. "Then you'll try to get rid of her—as I did. And she'll put a hex on you. You'll begin choking and dying, just as I'm choking and dying, because she won't let you breathe."

The failing voice was indescribably eerie. Judith said firmly, "I'm not going to read to you any more," and she talked persistently of cheerful things.

But at night, in her bed, she would remember the words of the dying woman and she would be acutely conscious of the little girl sleeping beside her. It was a huge bed; the feather mattress made billowy hills between the two sleepers, so that neither touched the other. Yet she found it increasingly difficult to sleep because of Thorne's presence in the bed.

This was due to her lifelong habit of sleeping alone, undoubtedly. It was in no wise the result of Abigail's direful croakings. But she began wishing some circumstance might arise to relieve her of her strange bedfellow.

It came one night unexpectedly.

The children were in the habit of undressing by the downstairs fire because the upper rooms were unheated. One night when the two little boys had already scampered upstairs with their grandmother, Richard came from the sickroom to find Thorne, in her flannel nightgown, huddled on the living-room hearth. When he told her she'd better get to bed before she caught cold she surprised him by asking if she could sleep downstairs in the trundle bed.

"Why do you want to sleep down here. Cricket?"

She had always complained that the trundle bed was too short for her.

But when urged to give a reason for changing, she said she'd rather sleep on the floor than spend another night with Miss Judith.

"Wliy, Thorne! Aren't you ashamed?" Richard was so astonished that he was rather short with her. "When Miss Judith has been so kind to you!"

''It's not me, Richard. It's her. She doesn't like sleeping with me."

"Did she say so?"

"No. But I can tell."

Richard sighed. He was very tired. "You're entirely too sensitive, Thorne, Miss Judith is the only friend you have in this house."

Thorne's eyes flashed through sudden tears. "She's not my friend. You are. I don't want any friend but you."

Richard, worn to a thin edge, spoke sharply. "If it hadn't been for Miss Judith you'd have been shipped out of here by now. Why should she take your part if she disliked you?"

Ann Tomlinson had come back downstairs. She had heard the colloquy by the fire. She heard her son's question and Thorne's retort, flung back with a childish sob:

"She's trying to get on the good side of you, stupid! That's why."

Richard tossed the whole matter aside with a weary gesture, but his mother said, "Let the child sleep in the trundle bed if she likes," and bustled away to get the bedding.

But once out of the room she stopped still, while a half-formed suspicion in her own mind took root. Thorne had recognized what she herself had feared but refused to acknowledge: that Judith was in love with Richard.

Ann Tomlinson was never a woman to flinch from the truth. But seldom had she faced so unpleasant a truth as the one confronting her now. Judith was encouraging Richard in a course which might very possibly result in his wife's death.

The schoolmistress was in the dining room when Miss Ann came through with an armful of blankets. She was sitting near the lamp with the family darning basket in her lap. No one could deny that she had been most helpful during these trying days.

"I wanted to tell you. Miss Judith, that I'm putting Thorne downstairs tonight in the trundle bed."

Judith looked relieved. "Perhaps that's better. I don't think she rests well with me."

Miss Ann did not comment. She was busy folding a large-size blanket to fit a small-size bed.

Judith went on: "You don't suppose there's any danger of Miss Abigail's finding out how near she is?"

"We'll have to risk it tonight. And after tonight it won't matter." Ann Tomlinson looked straight at the schoolteacher, "Because tomorrow I'm sending Thorne to Kentucky."

There was the strangest silence in the room.

Then Judith said, "Don't you think that's a question for Mr. Tomlinson to decide?"

The tiny gray-haired woman spoke with quiet authority--

"Miss Judith, sometimes we have a mistaken sense of loyalty. You are loyal to Richard because he helped you in the matter of the school. And Richard is loyal to a little girl because he thinks she has no other friend. But both of you overlook the fact that a woman in this house is dying. Abigail's mind may not be right. I don't know. But I do know she'll die if she doesn't get relief from this feeling she has about Thorne, And the only way to relieve her is to send the child away. So I'm sending Thorne to my daughter in Kentucky."

It was a long speech for Miss Ann. She picked up her blankets and went back to the front room,

Judith laid aside the darning basket and went softly upstairs.

Her bedroom was icy, but she felt no chill. Her body burned. She closed the door behind her and turned the key in the lock. Then she lighted a pair of candles on her dresser.

Softly she opened her dresser drawer and groped beneath a pile of underclothing. Her fingers closed upon the rag doll.

CHAPTER 9

She could not have told at the time why she had concealed it. Why she had kept silent while everything in the house was searched except the personal belongings of the schoolmistress.

Now she knew.

I'll bet a we could find that doll we'd find a string tied round its neck so tight it's choking me.

Fingers cold as ice took a velvet ribbon from the box on the dresser and tied it round the doll's rag throat; tight, tighter, tighter; until the cotton neck was no bigger than a slate pencil and the stuffed head lolled foolishly to one side like a chicken's with its neck wrung but not severed. The fingers knotted the velvet in a hard double knot and left two streamers dangling. They were Judith's fingers.

The heat in her body had cooled now. She was so cold she had no feeling; about anything. She sat with the doll in her hands and listened.

Footsteps moving up the stairs. Richard's mother coming up to bed. She had talked wath her son. She had hold him she was sending Thorne to Kentucky. He had finally yielded. The very tap of the shoes upon the bare oak stairs made this announcement. Ann Tomlinson had settled her household before coming up to bed.

Judith waited until the footsteps died upon the carpet of the room across the hall. Then she slipped Thorne's doll into the pocket of her voluminous skirt and went back down the stairs.

She found Richard in the dining room. It was exactly as she had guessed. His mother had told him her decision and he had made no further protest. He reahzed at last that his wife would die unless her mind was relieved.

He looked drawn and haggard, utterly without hope. Whether the misery in his eyes was for his wife's condition or for the loss of his little friend, Judith eould not tell. But the time was past for encouraging him to hold firm.

"Perhaps I was wrong," she admitted, ''in urging you to keep Thorne. But I honestly thought I was helping you."

"You were. You don't know what a help you've been." He looked at her gratefully from hollow, sleep-starved eyes. And then he looked away.

"I'm convinced my wife will die. Miss Judith, if Thorne remains in this house. I don't pretend to understand how such a thing can be. But I have come to believe in witchcraft; the witchcraft of one's own mind."

There was silence between them. Judith's hand clutched something tightly within the folds of her skirt.

She said, "Thorne can come back—afterward "

"What do you mean—afterward?"

"After your wife has—recovered."

"You think my wife will recover?"

"When the child is gone your wife will begin to eat. When she begins eating she will regain her strength." Unconsciously Judith's voice hardened. "Of course she will always be an invalid. But invalids usually live to a ripe old age."

Perhaps her companion noted the implication in her words, for his denial came swiftly.

"I don't agree with you. I believe my wife's recovery will be complete, once her mind is set at rest." Twin spots of color burned upon his gaunt unshaven cheeks; his hollow eyes flashed fire. Never had he looked less comely; never had he been more desirable to the woman than he was at that moment. For she guessed that he was lying, to himself as well as her. He did not believe his wife would ever be anything but a hopeless burden. He was trying to deny his own protest which he was afraid she might see.

"You need sleep, Mr. Tomlinson. Why don't you go upstairs and get a good night's rest? Let me stay with your wife tonight."

He passed his hand across his eyes, sorely tempted, yet muttering:

"No, no. It's my job. I ean't think of putting it on you."

But Judith urged, "Tomorrow's Saturday. I can sleep all day if need be."

After much pleading he yielded, on condition that she call him at midnight. They would divide the watch between them. Abigail had been given some sleeping drops, he said. She would probably sleep for the first part of the night.

Judith waited until his hushed footfall had faded upon the stairs. Then she went noiselessly down the passage to his wife's room. She opened the door without making a sound and closed it in silence behind her. She stood motionless beside the sickbed.

Abigail lay, as Judith had so often seen her, in the attitude of death. The hands folded on her bosom rose and fell with the rhythmic respiration of drugged sleep.

Judith drew the doll from her pocket and laid it on the pillow beside the sleeper.

Then she prepared to wait.

There was a coal fire in the grate and a shaded night lamp on a little table by the easy chair. She sat down in the chair and tucked her cold hands under her shawl to warm them.

There was no sound in the room, not even the comforting tick of a clock. Richard's big gold watch lay beside the medicine chart on the night table, but it told the moments silently. The room was so quiet she could hear Abigail breathe.

In—out. Inhale—exhale. In—out. Inhale—exhale.

Richard had said she might sleep soundly all night.

In—out. Inhale—exhale. In—out. Inhale—exhale.

Judith hugged her cold body closer.

The hands of Richard's watch moved slowly past the half-hour.

There was another sound in the stillness beside Abigail's breathing. It came from beyond the locked door leading to the front room. It was a muffled sound of childish sobbing. She recalled that Thorne was sleeping in the trundle bed.

Strangely, the sound held companionship. She was not alone with that measured breathing.

The hands of the watch moved past the three quarters—the hour—the quarter hour.

The sobbing beyond the door had ceased.

She was alone.

In—out. Inhale—exhale. In—out. Inhale

She waited for the exhalation, but it did not come.

Abigail was awake.

Judith did not have to move from her chair to see what was happening. She had only to turn her head. The shade of the night lamp cast a shadow that obscured the chair.

But the coal fire shed a glow that illumined the bed.

Abigail had turned toward the fire and was facing the doll on her pillow.

She lay rigid, motionless, eyes fixed and glassy as death. For a moment it seemed as though she had died at a single shock.

Then very slowly she put out a hand and clutched the doll and found it real. A convulsive shudder ran through her body. She opened her mouth to scream. No sound came.

The doll was in her hand. She could not let it go. In fascinated horror she drew it closer, examining it in detail. Its head lolled ludicrously to one side.

And then she saw the velvet ribbon about its neck; tied so tight the rag throat was no bigger than a pencil.

She dropped the doll with a sound of speechless terror and clutched her own throat.

The doll fell noiselessly upon the carpeted floor.

Judith, in the shadow of the night lamp, slid from the high-backed chair onto her hands and knees. Creeping to the side of the tall bed, she stealthily retrieved the doll. Then, still on her hands and knees, she edged over to the closet door and opened it a crack. Her groping hand found a gap between wall and floorboard. She stuffed the doll down this convenient hole.

Abigail, gasping, strangling, choking, writhing upon the bed, could never have seen her.

''Miss Abigail! Miss Abigail! What's the matter?"

But Abigail could not speak. Whether the bulging eyes accused or implored the woman bending solicitously over her no longer mattered. For the sounds that rattled from her throat were unintelligible.

"Oh, my dear, forgive me for going to sleep in my chair. Are you in pain? Tell me, what's the matter? Can't you speak?"

Only inarticulate gurgles of fast-failing breath. Abigail could tell no one anything.

It was perfectly safe to call Richard.

The trundle bed was too short for Thorne. Perhaps that was why she could not go to sleep.

She lay on her back, eyes closed, while tears seeping from under her eyelids trickled into her mouth and ears. For the first time in her life she had gone to bed at odds with Richard. She loved him so completely, so utterly to the exclusion of all else, that the sharp note in his voice had almost broken her heart. He had never spoken like that to her before. And never before had she flared up in anger at him. Her tears were as much for her own anger as for his reproof. She had called him stupid! She had called Richard-darling, darling Richard—a stupid, when he was the only friend she had in the world.

But he was stupid not to see what Miss Judith was up to.

Her sobs came thick and fast. She turned on her face to smother them, shrinking from a fear as yet only half recognized. She cried until, from sheer exhaustion, she fell asleep.

She woke from her first short nap to hear voices somewhere. Lights bobbed fantastically in the hall, and hushed commotion filled the house. From the room beyond the alcove strange noises filtered. In terror Thorne started from her bed.

Chilled hands caught her and put her firmly back. She started to scream, but a cold palm closed over her mouth.

"Don't make any noise." It was Judith. Her voice was colder than her hands.

''What is it?" whispered Thorne fearfully.

"Abigail."

"Is she worse?"

"She's dying."

There was dim light from the hall. Thorne's eyes searched the schoolteacher's face, so strange was the tone of her voice.

"How do you know? Have you been in her room?"

"I sat with her. So Richard could get some sleep."

"Did she have another spell?"

"Yes."

Judith sat down on the side of the bed, her whole body tensed with listening.

There was the sound of hurrying feet, subdued voices that told nothing, strangling gasps from behind the connecting door, the ring of horses' hoofs on the frozen ground outside.

Judith whispered, "The doctor! Will went for Dr. Caxton."

Together they sat and listened to the heavy tread of the doctor's boots, to the one unhushed voice that now dominated everything. They caught fragments of talk beyond the door:

"Membranous croup . . . get kerosene . . . the woman's choking to death . . ."

They heard arguments over the dangers and merits of kerosene and goose grease, with Dr. Caxton shouting down Ann Tomlinson:

"I know it's inflammable, but goose grease won't cut phlegm. Bring me some coal oil, Richard."

They heard feet racing to the kitchen. They heard windows being raised to give the choking woman air. They knew when coal oil was administered. They knew when it failed.

TogeTher they listened, the woman and the child, bound in this moment by some fearful community of interest.

Once Thorne said in sudden panic, "I don't want Miss Abigail to die," as though in strange foreknowledge of the potentialities of the event.

Juditli said coldly, ''They were going to send you to Kentucky," as though showing cause why some judgment had been pronounced.

The child trembled and involuntarily shrank away from the schoolmistress.

When certain sounds from the other room conveyed a dreadful message to the listening woman she rose and drew the girl swiftly from the trundle bed.

"Come upstairs to my room."

Unquestioning, Thorne obeyed.

It was nearly daylight when Ann Tomlinson came upstairs. She found Judith sitting by the bedside of Richard's sons. The candle had burned low, and its guttering flame threw a queer light on the face bent over the sleeping children. For a moment Miss Ann was stunned by the expression on The schoolteacher's face. Then the flame burned brighter and she saw only a look of compassion. Perhaps that exultant smile was a shadow cast by a smoking wick.

"I knew I couldn't be of any real help downstairs," said Judith, "and I was afraid the little boys might wake and start looking for you."

Miss Ann nodded silently. She, too, bent over the sleeping children and tenderly touehed little Rodgie's curls.

"I'm too old to bring up so young a child. Too old—and too tired."

It was the only time anyone ever heard Ann Tomlinson admit weariness.

Judith whispered, "Is it " But the words stuck in her throat.

"It's all over," said Miss Ann quietly. "Their mother died at quarter to three."

CHAPTER 10

The funeral of Abigail Tomlinson was an event of widespread interest. Every family in the district was represented. School was closed for three days because Richard was a township trustee.

The services were conducted at the house, with the choir from the Woodridge church singing "Rock of Ages" and "Lead, Kindly Light." Mr. Jameson spoke briefly. Too briefly, in some people's opinion. There was talk afterward about how he "skimped" in his praise of the deceased.

"You'd have thought the woman was alive and well, the way he ignored her."

It was true that the minister had little to say about Abigail except that God had now released her from her sufferings. He spoke with sympathy of the bereaved husband and two small sons. But his real tribute was paid to the small gray-haired woman who sat between Richard and his children, as though gathering all three beneath her wing.

"You who know Mrs. Ann Tomlinson—and who that has had sickness or death or calamity in his house does not know her?—can rest assured that these children are not left without a mother, and this man is not left without as stout a heart as God ever put in a woman's breast to cheer him through his trouble."

There were moist eyes in weather-beaten faces at that. Everyone loved Miss Ann.

Abigail looked surprisingly young in death. The lines which illness had etched upon her face were magically erased. She looked fair and fragile as she lay in her pale gray casket.

This matter of the casket caused comment. It was the first time that anything except black for an adult had ever been seen in the county. Richard had sent to Indianapolis for it, and that in itself lent a kind of glamour to the woman who lay within it. It stood before the drawn curtains of the alcove, facing the clock which no longer told the hours. More than one person remarked afterward that the face of the dead woman was turned slightly toward the clock, as though listening for it to strike.

She was buried in the family burial ground on the hill. Young Will Tomlinson, Mr. Otis Huse, Lucius Goff, and John Barclay carried the casket to its final resting place. The plot already held the graves of Roger Tomlinson, four children who had died in infancy, and Millie's husband.

Abigail died between midnight and dawn of a Friday night. She was not buried until the following Wednesday. During the interim the body lay in the unheated front room and people went about on tiptoe. The house was hushed and its inhabitants lived withdrawn.

Judith found the interval of waiting almost unendurable. She spent most of her time with the children. There was the chance that by keeping close to Richard's sons she might see him more often. But whether purposely or unintentionally, he seemed to avoid her. She saw him only at mealtimes.

A restlessness possessed her. It made it almost impossible for her to stay in the house. It drove her to take long walks with the children. Once out of doors, she talked of anything, everything, except the somber circumstance that was throwing them so much together. She told them stories, even jokes of a subdued nature, and was altogether so pleasant a companion that the little boys clamored to be with her. They were awed but not saddened by their mother's death. Abigail had been merely a disquieting presence in their lives too long for them to feel any great sense of loss. So while they behaved with gloomy propriety within the house, once out of doors their walks with Judith became increasingly pleasant excursions.

Thus it was with Richard's sons. Not so with Thorne. Thorne, who of all people should have felt no loss in Abigail, was silent, grave, and thoughtful.

Judith became exasperated with her.

Finally she took her to task.

It was the day before the funeral and Judith, knowing the ordeal in store for them, was anxious to give the little boys a pleasant time. She had taken them for a tramp through the sugar orchard, where snow lay thick-crusted on the ground again after the February thaw. They had come out above the pond, and the boys had discovered good sound ice upon its surface and soon were making a slide. They shouted to Thorne, who stood on the bank, not joining in the sport.

"Come on, Thorne! Come on and slide."

"Yes, Thorne, why don't you play with them?" asked Judith.

Thorne did not answer. She stood with her back to the raw March wind, looking cold and pinched and unhappy.

Judith said impatiently, "What's the matter, Thorne?"

Thorne looked at the schoolmistress strangely. She could

not put into words her vague, foreboding fears regarding this woman. Neither could she explain the dread in her own heart, which she was yet too young to understand.

She whispered, "I think it would have been better if Miss Abigail hadn't died."

For a second Judith's determined cheerfulness froze.

Then she rallied. "Of course, Thorne. We all wish that Miss Abigail hadn't died. We feel very sad about her death. But we should not show our sadness to the children. It makes it harder for them."

"That's not what I meant." Thorne's candid brow puckered in a frown. "I'm not sad—about Miss Abigail. She made Richard very unhappy. On his account, I'm glad she's gone."

"That's a terrible thing to say," said Judith sternly.

"Yes, I know." Again that elfin look came into Thorne's eyes. "Do you suppose she knows?"

"Who knows?" said Judith sharply.

"Miss Abigail. I'd hate for her to know how we feel about her dying."

"What do you mean, how we feel?" Judith's voice rose shrilly. "Be careful how you include other people in your remarks."

"I'm sorry. I thought you felt the same way I did."

"Well, you thought wrong. I have nothing but the deepest regret for Mrs. Tomlinson's death."

The strange child nodded. "That's what I mean. Now that she's gone, I think maybe it would have been better if she hadn't died,"

There was company for supper following the funeral: friends and relatives who had driven from afar to attend the services. As many as could be accommodated stayed overnight. The strange faces at the table, the added bustle in dining room and kitchen lent an air of somber conviviality to the house. Miss Ann and Millie had worked for three days preparing the feast which they knew would be expected and which really justified Cousin Lutie Simms's unfaihng tribute on such occasions: "My, my! Regular harvest dinner." Judith found the change of atmosphere exhilarating after the oppressive silence of the last five days.

But if she had hoped for a re-establishment of her old subtle contact with Richard, she was disappointed. He sat at the head of his table, hospitably attentive to the needs of his guests, but dignified and remote. Except for exchanging a few words with Otis Huse, who sat on his right as nearest relative of the deceased, the newly made widower was silent throughout the meal.

This was approved by all present.

Privately, no one believed for a moment that Richard felt anything but relief for his wife's death, and speculation was already rife as to how soon he would marry again. But his behavior as a bereaved husband was beyond criticism.

Judith was seated midway of the long table, with Lucius GofF on her left and young Will Tomlinson on her right. Of the two, she found it easier to talk to Will. This was odd, for the eighteen-year-old lad had always been antagonistic and had openly charged her with encouraging his brother in the matter of Thorne. But Will was practical and rather hard-minded. His sister-in-law was dead and there was no use pretending; that all concerned, herself included, weren't better off. Judith found him a comfortable neighbor.

On the other hand, Lucius Goff's smile was absurdly unnerving. It seemed to say, "Why are you mourning?" She flushed under it, though his remark was perfectly innocuous.

"Have you ever noticed how heartily people eat following a funeral?"

Perhaps he was only trying to be amusing. But there was a knowing twinkle in his black eyes. Judith looked the other way.

It was long after the usual bedtime when she came downstairs with her book. Knowing that she was to share her bed with fat Cousin Lutie, who probably snored in her sleep, Judith was in no haste to retire. Taking a candle, she slipped down the covered passage to the kitchen. Just after prayers she had heard Richard say that he would smoke a pipe by the kitchen fire before going to bed.

She found him sitting alone before the open grate of the big cookstove.

There was no light in the smoke-blackened room except the red gleam of coals through the grating. It made sharp high lights of the man's features, changing the familiar outlines of his handsome open countenance, giving a dark brooding look to his face.

"I beg your pardon. I didn't know there was anyone here."

At the sound of Judith's voice he started, almost guiltily, and rose to his feet.

"Please don't go. I just thought I'd read a bit before going to bed. There's no fire in my room." Judith set her candle on a convenient shelf and drew an old rocker close to the stove.

He sat down again without speaking. Judith settled herself with her book and pretended to read. The clock on the shelf ticked noisily. The man seemed oblivious of her presence.

When she had turned two pages she laid her book down and delicately stifled a yawn. Then she stole a glance at her silent neighbor. He was looking at her intently.

She felt that he had been watching her for some time.

Inadvertently she spoke. ''what's the matter?"

He leaned toward her and said in a lowered tone, "Do you know anything about that doll?"

If he had struck her she could not have recoiled more sharply. Fortunately the recoil was mental and the light was poor.

"You mean—Thorne's doll?"

He nodded.

"Why do you ask?"

"My wife did not die of membranous croup."

"What did she die of?"

"Heart attack. Following sudden shock."

The kitchen clock ticked stridently above their heads. The book in Judith's lap was tightly clutched with sweating hands. She neither moved nor spoke.

"When you came to call me that night you said my wife had wakened from a sound sleep and seemed to be having trouble with her breathing. Remember?"

"I remember."

"Had there been anyone else in the room besides yourself during the night?"

"No one."

"Did you leave the room at any time?"

"Not until I went to call you." Judith seemed to be having trouble with her own breathing. "Why do you ask?"

"When I got down to Abigail's room I found her clutching her throat and gasping that she was being strangled. She couldn't breathe, she could scarcely speak, yet she tried to tell me something about the doll. She said she had waked to find it lying on the pillow with a velvet ribbon tied round its neck. The string was tied so tight it was choking her to death. She begged me to cut it so she could breathe. And all in gasping whispers while she clawed for air. Oh, my God, it was pitiful!"

"What did you do?" asked Judith.

"There was nothing I could do," he answered. "The doll wasn't there."

The hands gripping the book relaxed. "Hallucination."

Richard muttered, "I wish I could believe it."

"What did the doctor say?"

"By the time the doctor got there Abigail was unconscious."

'Then you didn't tell him about the doll?"

He looked guilty. "It was too late to do anything. Dr. Caxton seemed to think it was membranous croup."

"It was membranous croup, wasn't it?"

He shook his head. "It was her heart. I'm sure of it. She always fainted easily. She died of fright."

"Then it was self-induced," said Judith. "Because you found no doll, did you?"

"I searched everywhere. On The bed, under the bed. There was no doll in the room."

"There! You see? Pure hallucination."

"But she described so accurately the ribbon about its neck. Do you think she would have mentioned a velvet ribbon if it had been hallucination?"

"She might," said Judith calmly. "Velvet ribbons are the fashion, you know. I wear them myself. She was already having trouble with her breathing when I went to call you. Her imagination started working. The doll was never out of her mind. She began thinking about it—and saw it with a velvet ribbon around its neck."

"And you think that's all she saw—just an image of her own excited fancy?"

"I do indeed."

"Then why did she say"—he seemed to force the words— "when I asked her what became of the doll, why did she say, 'She knows'?"

Cold sweat drenched Judith's body under her woolen undergarments.

"I know what you're thinking, Mr. Tomlinson," she said carefully. "You're thinking she meant Thorne."

"No, no!" The very fervor of his denial was confirmation.

"The doll belonged to Thorne, of course. And Miss Abigail always believed she had it hidden away somewhere."

Now that she knew his fear Judith's relief made her slightly giddy.

"I never thought of it before—but I suppose someone could have slipped into your wife's room while I was out—and laid the doll on her pillow—then taken it away before you came down."

A stifled groan was the only sign that he had heard her.

"I remember now that Thorne slept in the trundle bed that night, just beyond the door that connected with Miss Abigail's room."

He, too, remembered. The lines in his face, the pain in his eyes were proof of his tortured thinking.

''She could have seen me go upstairs," Judith went on, "and seized the opportunity while I was out of the room. And of course she could have tied a velvet ribbon around the doll's neck. After all, she's little more than a child; she'd naturally dress her dolly in the current fashion. But that doesn't prove your wife actually saw the doll on her pillow. I still think she was suffering from hallucination."

"Do you really believe that?" His eyes pleaded desperately for reassurance.

Judith weighed for a second one alternative of self-interest against another. Then she saw that by erasing this man's fear she could bind him heart and mind to herself.

"Yes, Mr. Tomlinson, I do. For when I came downstairs again that night I found Thorne in the trundle bed, fast asleep. She could hardly have left her bed in the meantime and fallen asleep so quickly."

"God bless you, Judith, for telling me that."

For the second time in their acquaintance he had called her Judith. And it had been, curiously, as on that other occasion, when she had relieved his anxiety about Thorne.

He was able to talk now without restraint.

"You don't know what thoughts I've had, God forgive me! But Abigail hated her so—made her life so miserable. You could hardly blame the child if she had held enmity in return. I was afraid—she might have been tempted—to work on Abigail's insane superstition. She's very bright, you know But now"— he looked at Judith with wet eyes—"this may sound strange coming from a man who has just buried his wife, but I think I love you, Judith, for your kindness to my poor little Thorne."

Judith sat very still, uncertain what kind of declaration of love this might be.

"I am very fond of Thorne, Mr. Tomlinson."

"I know you are. That's why it will be a personal loss to both of us not to have you teaching at Timberley next year."

So unprepared was Judith for this shock that she cried sharply, ''Not teach at Timberley? What do you mean?"

"Al Carpenter has recovered. He wants the school back."

"And I'm to be turned out to accommodate him!" Just in time she remembered that she would gain nothing by a display of shrewish temper. She asked in a different tone, "Haven't I given satisfaction?"

"You have indeed. But Mr. Carpenter has many friends in the district. And a male teacher is always preferred. You understood the position was only temporary, didn't you?"

There was no argument on this point. But Judith had trusted to her gambler's luck that Al Carpenter might be permanently disabled.

"Then you've known for some time that I was going to be let out?" Frustrated anger rose in her throat, tears of disappointment in her eyes.

"I've known since Christmas," said Richard.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He looked at her with such disarming kindness that her anger melted.

"I didn't want to give you bad news until I had something to offer you in its place."

Hope rose again. He had waited till after his wife's death— because he had something to offer. . . .

She whispered, "What do you mean?"

"I have found you a school near Staunton."

"Oh."

Staunton was in another county.

Judith studied her slim white hands. This was March. Rural school was out in April, so that the bigger boys could help with spring plowing. She would have to work fast or everything would have been done in vain.

"It is good of you, Mr. Tomlinson, to go to so much trouble on my account. I know I should be happy to have the promise of a school at Staunton. And I would be if it weren't for leaving Thorne. I'm afraid when I'm gone that your mother will send her to Kentucky."

"Mother! Send Thorne away? Oh no. Mother has no grudge against the child."

"I don't mean that," said Judith gently. "I stayed with the children the night—Miss Abigail died. Thorne was very nervous. I had to take her up to my room. Your boys never woke up. I was sitting with them when your mother came upstairs."

He seemed touched by that.

"I told Miss Ann about Thorne, and she said a strange thing, Mr. Tomlinson. She said, Tm too old to bring up so young a child. Too old—and too tired.' "

"But Thorne is much older than my boys." He looked puzzled.

"Thorne is a girl," explained Judith delicately. "Girls in their teens are sometimes difficult. That is what your mother meant."

He sat in troubled silence. The brooding look came back into his eyes.

"Your mother is no longer young, Mr. Tomlinson. Three children are no small job. Your boys are her grandsons and no trouble to her because she's had them from infancy and understands them. But Thorne has a peculiar background. Your mother can hardly be blamed for feeling she's unequal to the task of bringing her up."

''But she doesn't need bringing up. All she needs is love and a little patience."

"I agree with you." Judith's eyes were sparkling with moisture. 'If you could have seen how she clung to me that night-like a child to her mother."

He said naively, "You're rather young to be Thorne's mother," and then flushed as he realized what he had said. But he looked at Judith with pleasure, as though discovering beauty where he had seen none before. Something that had stretched like a delicate cord between them from the beginning tightened like a bowstring. Was it mutual love for an orphan girl or was it something more personal? He was not a vain man, but it was impossible not to know that this charming young woman had practically offered to become his wife.

"Miss Judith, this is neither the time nor the place for me to speak of what should not even be in my mind at this moment. My wife's death—and before that, her long illness--has been too sad a thing for me ever again to give much thought to personal happiness. But with three children on my hands I realize that I must in time make other plans for the future."

He paused in his lengthy, stilted speech, and every pulse in Judith's body seemed suspended, "I can't speak of those plans at the present. But someday, if you are kind enough to listen, I should like to talk to you about them."

Judith said, "How can you talk to me if I am at Staunton?"

He looked at her with a faint trace of his old mischief.

"Perhaps we shall meet again in Terre Haute next fall and see a Shakespeare play together."

CHAPTER 11

The summer following Abigail's death was the happiest Thorne had ever known. She woke each morning, expectantly, to the crow of a very young rooster. Always before she had protested the cockcrow and the enforced early rising of the farm. But now she sprang joyously from bed, as though the summer day were not long enough to hold all the delight it promised. Sometimes she was dressed and roaming the woods before Millie had her breakfast fire started. Berries were ripe now and nothing, to Richard's thinking, equaled a bowl of blackberries fresh with dew to begin the morning meal.

Never, since early childhood when parental love cushioned her against reality, had Thorne lived in such security. The hand-to-mouth existence of her carnival days, succeeded by the constant threats of Abigail, had so inured her to anxiety that for a time it was hard for her to realize that she no longer had anything to worry about. Not until after school was out and Judith had returned to the city and it was known for a fact that she would not be coming back was Thorne able to accept the permanency of her happiness. Even then, her first thought on waking was a swift, imploring prayer,

"Please, God, let it last. Don't take it away. Let it be like this always." Sometimes, remembering Abigail, she would add, "Don't let me be glad she's dead. But if I am, please forgive me."

Remembering Judith, she would not pray at all.

Sometimes there was the faintest shadow of a cloud on the clear blue of her horizon, like the morning Ricky knocked upon her door while she was braiding her hair. She had inherited the bird's-eye-maple room upon Judith's departure, and it gave her a wonderful feeling of grown-up importance to have a door upon which people must knock and to be able to say "Come in" to her former bedfellows. The little boys still called upon her to button them up before going down to breakfast.

"Oh, look what Miss Judith left behind," cried Rodgie, who had followed his brother into the room. He was exploring the mysteries of the bureau and had discovered a cut-glass bottle with a rubber ball attached. When squeezed, it filled the air with delicious scent.

Thorne, intent on connecting Ricky's panty waist with his drawers, looked up. "Where did you get that, Rodgie?"

"In the little cubby. Didn't you know it was there?"

She had not seen it until that moment. "Let me have it, please."

"No. It's not yours. It's mine. I found it." Rodgie clutched his treasure to his stomach.

"It's not yours," said Ricky with an air of superior judgment. "It belongs to Miss Judith, and you'd better put it back where you found it. She won't like it when she comes back, if she finds her scent bottle gone."

Thorne's face blanched. "She's not coming back," she said quickly.

Ricky said smugly, "Whatcha wanta bet?"

"What do you mean?" asked Thorne.

The young man, who still had trouble with buttons and buttonholes, looked wise with the newly acquired wisdom of seven years.

"Jesse Moffat bets she's comin' back. I heard him talkin' to Uncle Will. She never woulda left that bottle if she wasn't comin' back."

Thorne stared at the inoffensive bottle as though it had been a sharp instrument on which she had inadvertently cut herself.

There were other storm warnings from Millie. Perhaps it was only the black woman's superstition, perhaps it was the irritability of advancing age and rheumatism which made Thorne's suddenly released spirits the subject of gloomy foreboding. As she watched the girl who had once been afraid to lift her voice, who had slipped through the house like a shadow, now running in and out as she pleased, laughing, shouting, playing games, Millie's dark speculations took voice.

"Steppin' mighty free and easy now Miss Abby's daid, ain't yuh? Bettah watch out."

The words—still more, the tone of voice—cast a pall on Thorne's young gaiety.

"What do you mean, Millie?"

"Bad luck dancin' on a grave."

The two were alone in the big black kitchen. It was after supper and Thorne was helping with the dishes so that Miss Ann could sit on the porch under the June roses. The evening was lush with fragance, and by and by Richard was going down to the crossroads for the mail and Thorne was going with him. The world was right and good and brimming with promise until Millie spoke.

"I'm not dancing on a grave. Why do you say a thing like that?"

"Good luck don' las' that comes from somebody dyin'," warned the old woman grimly. "Bettah not act too happy. She won't like it."

"But she's gone, Millie. What I do can't bother her now."

The turbaned head nodded gloomily. "That's whut I mean. She's gone. An' we don' want her comin' back." The familiar black face was frightening in the murky shadows of the room.

But outdoors the sky was red with sunset, and from beyond the open windows Richard's whistle set the earth back on its axis. Thorne flung down her dish towel and ran out to join him, glad to escape from the dusky kitchen and Millie's baleful croakings.

As they crossed the side yard they heard buggy wheels and voices, topped by a high youthful giggle. Thorne recognized the giggle.

"It's the Turners. Nancy said they'd be over this evening. If she's seen me I'll have to go back."

Richard seized her hand and drew her behind a clump of lilacs. Together they waited, like two conspirators, while the Turner surrey passed along the lane and deposited Kate and Hugh Turner, their three children, and Hugh's fifteen-year-old sister Nancy on the Timberley lawn. When the visitors had disappeared around the corner of the front porch the truants ran swiftly down the slope toward the shelter of the woods.

"Remember, we didn't see them," cautioned Richard. "If they're still here when we come back we must be quite surprised to find we have company."

His mischievous wink belied the droll gravity of his tone, and Thorne laughed rapturously. Oh, it was fun to be running away from only Nancy Turner. To have no greater fear than the danger of being caught by that harmless giggler. It was good to be clasping Richard's hand, unafraid of watchful eyes peering from the window. In a flash of clarity Thorne realized that all the inexplicable joy of this summertime was born of the freedom to clasp Richard's hand.

It was dim and cool beneath the beech trees, like the aisles in an empty church. As they went on their pace slackened. The hushed privacy of the leafy world was conducive to intimate talk. '

"I don't know what you see in Nancy Turner," Richard began. "You never used to play together, but now it seems everywhere I turn I hear that giggle or see that toothy smile. She's too old a chum for you. Cricket."

Nancy was a plump, overdeveloped girl for her age and so obviously boy-struck that her elders found her society slightly wearing.

''She likes to talk to me," Thorne explained.

"What about?"

''Oh, everything."

He frowned. Nancy was beginning to have beaux, a fact which he thoroughly disapproved.

"Half the fun of being in love," said Thorne sagely, "is having an interested listener."

He stopped short in the path. "What do you know about being in love?"

"Nothing. That's what Nancy says."

"And you're an interested listener, I suppose."

"Very."

He made an unintelligible sound that might have been a growl or a cough. He was suddenly very much out of temper. He didn't want that featherbrain sister of Hugh Turner's filling Thorne's head with her silly ideas. He wondered just what she had told Thorne. For that matter, he wondered just how much the little nitwit had to tell. She had been going about with the Henderson boy, and young Chet Henderson was known as a wild one. Richard couldn't imagine what Hugh and Kate were thinking of not to clamp the lid down on Miss Nancy. But that wasn't his concern. Thorne was his concern, and he wasn't going to have her spoiled. She was sweet and fresh and innocent and he was going to keep her that way. He did not want her changed, ever. He grew quite warm thinking about it and looked down at her half fearfully, as though expecting to find some change already occurred.

"When did you start putting your hair up?" he demanded, as though it were the first time he had seen the dark braids wound about her head.

"I've been wearing it this way all summer," said Thorne. "It's cooler."

"Isn't that the way Nancy wears hers?"

"Yes. Don't you like it?"

His answer was to extricate the two shell pins that held the

braids and toss them away. "Hairpins!" he muttered. Then, with his fingers, he combed the thick loose plaits into their accustomed curly tangle.

"You shouldn't have thrown the pins away," said Thorne. "They belonged to Nancy." She looked at him anxiously. "Are you angry? I didn't know you'd mind."

In the twilight of the beeches her face was a dim pale shape. He took it between his hands as though to see it better. He could no more be angry with her than with his own hand or heart, but he was troubled. She was growing so fast and he had no knowledge of how to deal with a girl child who was growing up. He would have talked to his mother about her but that he recalled what Judith had told him about Miss Ann's belief that Thorne would do better in Kentucky with his older sister. If his mother held that opinion it would not do to betray his own uneasiness. Doubtless his other sisters agreed with her. He had no one to turn to in his perplexity, unless . . .

Inevitably his reasoning brought him to the point round which his thoughts had milled all summer: Judith.

Over and over he had relived their talk by the kitchen fire. He realized that he had practically committed himself to marry her—if he ever married anyone. But this summer of absolute freedom had been so to his liking that he had decided he did not want to marry again. He had persuaded himself that he could manage his household without any woman's help, when this troublesome business about Thorne obtruded and destroyed his peace of mind.

"I'm not angry with you. Cricket. I just don't like you shooting up so fast. You're growing like a spring colt."

"Am I?" she laughed happily.

He said jealously, "You sound as though you were glad."

"Of course I'm glad. Aren't you?"

He did not answer. He only stood stroking her hair, as though his hand upon her head could postpone growth and some dimly foreseen heartache.

"I don't want to be a child all my life," said Thorne. "I'd like to grow up right now—this very summer."

"Another speech like that and I'll turn you across my knee." He gave her a little shake as he released her.

They went on in companionable silence through the deepening twilight of the woods. All about them the unseen life of feathered, furred, and creeping things grew vocal with the fall of evening. A squirrel barked just over their heads, from some hidden pool of rain water came the croupy plaint of a frog, a thrush cleared his throat in a thicket, and on all sides rose the pulsing croon of katydids. It was the time, of all others, Thorne loved to be in the woods. She was sorry when they came out of the grove and crossed the road to the store.

Timberley store was kept by an elderly bachelor named Witherspoon who lived on the premises with his family of cats and never closed up till bedtime. On mail days—Tuesdays and Fridays—he never went to bed until a late hour, because as sure as he did some tardy customer would bang on his door and demand that he open up and give him his paper. The mail consisted mostly of periodicals. Those who could afford it subscribed to at least one—sometimes two—weekly papers. Those who couldn't afford subscriptions borrowed from their neighbors. The Tomlinsons took both the Indianapolis and Terre Haute papers and after reading them passed them on to the Schooks.

As Richard and Thorne entered the store Henry Schook hailed them from his seat on the sugar barrel.

"Our papers've come, Richard. Here's the Express." He tossed over one of the newspapers as blandly as though it had been his own. "You can run through that while I see what's doin' in Indianapolis."

The room was filled with men, newspapers, tobacco smoke, and conversation. Richard was greeted from all sides. Thorne

edged her way to the row of mailboxes at the back of the room, where Mr. Witherspoon was still sorting the contents of the two sacks labeled ''U.S. Mail."

"A-B-C-D-E-F-G-Garcey Humph! Wonder what Widow Garcey's brother in Ohio's writin' her about. Oh, hello, Thorne. How're you this evening?"

"Fine, thanks. Want me to put that in Mrs. Garcey's box?"

"Might as well." Mr. Witherspoon surrendered the envelope dubiously. "Always hate to see people get letters. So apt to have bad news in 'em."

"Why?" Thorne was interested. "Wliy should letters be apt to have bad news?"

His reason was cogent. "No point in writin' if things are goin' well."

Thorne had never considered it in this light before. The remark excited her imagination. Mr. Witherspoon's moroseness had always fascinated her. Now it was explained. At some time in his life he had undoubtedly received bad news in a letter. That was why he lived alone, like an embittered old maid, with his cat Sheba and her occasional offspring.

"Well, I'll be switched! Here's one for you, Thorne."

Thorne looked up blankly. The storekeeper was holding out a square white envelope gingerly, as though distrusting its contents. Thesuperscription, plain as faultless penmanship could make it, was Miss Thorne Tomlinson, Timberly Farm, Woodndge, Indiana.

"Now who could be writin' letters to an innocent young thing like you?" wondered Mr. Witherspoon darkly.

Thorne knew only too well whose hand had penned her name with that beautifully shaded stroke. She had seen that writing on blackboards too often to mistake it. The sight of it now gave her a queer sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The storekeeper, mistaking her change of color, said kindly, "There now, don't be scared 'count of what I said about bad news. Nobody could be writin' you bad news 'cause you ain't got any folks to have things happen to. Go ahead, take it. See who it's from."

"I know who it's from," said Thorne, and slipped the letter into her pocket.

"Aren't you going to read it?" asked Mr. Witherspoon. He was disappointed.

"I will—later," said Thorne, and went out on the side porch, where Sheba and her daughters were making their evening toilets. Here Richard found her some time later when he inquired of the storekeeper what had become of her.

"She went outdoors to read her letter."

"Did Thorne get a letter? Who from?"

"She didn't open it in here," was the somewhat injured reply.

But Thorne was not reading a letter when Richard joined her. She was sitting on the porch step, so motionless that Sheba's kittens had made a bed of her wide-flung skirt.

"Hello! Hear you got a letter." Richard dispossessed the sleeping cats and sat down beside her. Leaning forward, he peered into her face and sharp anxiety seized him. Had someone connected with her old life—that good-for-nothing prestidigitator, Pete McGraw, to be exact—communicated with the child after all this time?

"Who's it from. Cricket?"

"I haven't opened it yet."

In her eyes was a look he had not seen there since Abigail died. His own fears immediately became facts.

"Listen, Thorne. No matter what's in that letter, you've nothing to worry about. There's not a person in this world— now—who has the power to hurt you. So give me the letter. If someone's trying to annoy you I'll send him about his business."

But when he reached for the envelope her fingers tightened upon it. An oil lamp flared in the room behind them. He saw tears upon her check.

"Thorne! What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I'm going home." She sprang up suddenly, like a young wild thing, and began walking rapidly toward the road. He had to hurry to catch up with her.

"Wait, Thorne. You're crying."

"I'm not."

She crossed the road and started running. Wildly she fled toward the woods, hearing him gain upon her and seized with a foolish panic. When he caught her she screamed and struggled in his grasp, beating his chest with small ineffectual fists while her face contorted with tears. "Let me go!" she sobbed.

"Thorne! What's come over you? We're not going back through the woods. It's too dark. Here, take my handkerchief. Your face is a sight. You shouldn't rub your eyes with hands that have been petting dirty cats."

The mild scolding restored her wonderfully. She accepted the handkerchief, used it, and returned it with a casual "Thanks," as coolly as though her sudden tantrum had never occurred. But as they went on their way she proffered the letter with a gesture slightly apologetic.

"Here—you can read it if you want to."

The large elegant black script was perfectly clear in the fading light. At sight of it Richard was relieved.

"Well, no carnival tramp wrote that. It looks like a woman's hand. Who could it be from?"

Thorne gave him a sidelong glance. "Don't you know?"

"It's not my sister Annie's scribble." He looked extremely innocent. "I can't think of any other feminine correspondents

with Timberley—unless " He stopped as his eyes fell on the

postmark. Thorne, watching him, saw color rise beneath his summer tan.

"It's from Terre Haute," he said, rather too carelessly. "Maybe it's from Miss Amory."

"I'm sure it is," said Thorne, and quickened her pace.

"Here, wait! Don't you want to read it?"

"It's too dark."

"Nonsense. It's quite light, now that we're clear of the trees."

"All right then, you read it," said Thorne, so shortly that he might have wondered at her tone had he not been so intent upon learning what had prompted Judith Amory to write to her former pupil.

It was an innocuous missive, quite brief. He read it in silence first, just in case it bore reference to any conversation the writer might have had with Mr. Richard Tomlinson.

"Dear Thorne,

"I've thought of you so often since leaving Timberley and always with the pleasantest memories of our companionship. How is the reading coming on? I can't chide you if you find little time for it these long summer days. There are shut-in hours next winter for Shakespeare and Dickens, and Timberley must be at its loveliest in June.

"I envy you, my dear. The city is so hot and the work I am doing —tutoring for fall examinations—so tiresome. I long for your cool green woods, but the next best thing would be a visit from you telling me about them. If any of the family should chance to be coming to the city do ask them to bring you to sec me.

"With kindest regards to all, I remain

"Your friend, "Judith Amory"

"Well, what a nice letter," was Richard's comment as he folded the sheet of note paper after reading it aloud. "A very thoughtful thing for a schoolteacher to keep in touch with her old pupils."

Thorne looked at him in eloquent silence. Her futile anger melted before the colossal stupidity of man. To her the purpose of the letter was so obvious it seemed that even Richard must see that the woman had used the device to recall her own image to his mind. That she had succeeded, a glance at his face would attest. Even in the gathering darkness a kindhng glow was visible,

When they came in sight of Timberley, Thorne ran ahead of him up the slope to the house. Fireflies starred the dusk, and the young Tomlinsons and Turners were chasing them over the lawn. She shouted to the children and threw herself into the sport; threw herself back into childhood, from the precarious ledge of adult reasoning on which she had teetered. What if Judith had written her a letter? It meant nothing. Why shouldn't Richard be pleased? He was always pleased when someone showed her a kindness. He was her dear friend, and no one, nor anything, could make him less. Neither death, nor life . . . nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature should separate them.

She had an ear for the majestic phraseology of the Bible, independent of its connotation. In the fragment which had lingered from last night's prayers she had failed to note that it was the love of God from which she was promised no separation, not the love of friend.

CHAPTER 12

Far from being the unsuspecting dolt that Thorne would have had him, Richard was perfectly aware of the purpose in Judith's note. The little strategy by which he was reminded that he had a rendezvous, come autumn, amused him. In the security of his resolution he was flattered rather than alarmed. For he had quite made up his mind that he was not going to marry again.

But the letter, carrying a delicate whiff of the scent she always used, brought Judith sharply before him. The elegant handwriting, expressing concern and affection for his little friend, revived the old feeling of gratitude. Judith was very kind; much too kind to be hurt. He had intended simply forgetting any vague promise to see her again. Now he realized the frank and gentlemanly thing to do was to call upon her and in a kind and impersonal way make it clear that he had no intention of remarrying. Perhaps he would take the children with him so that she could not possibly misconstrue his visit. He would go to the city as soon as harvest was over.

Wheat harvest dominated the month of July. The Tomlinsons owned the only reaping and threshing machines in the district, and it was the custom of the neighboring farmers to lend their services at Timberley in return for the loan of the back-saving machinery for cutting their own crops. When the Tomlinson grain had been harvested the whole crew moved on to the next farm, and so on in rotation. Women accompanied their men to assist in preparation of the harvest dinners which were cooked in the farmhouse kitchens and carried out to hastily constructed tables under the trees. Children accompanied mothers, and the whole season was in the nature of a prolonged community picnic.

After the reaping came the threshing. The great horsepower threshing machine, driven round and round by twelve tough mules to the accompaniment of an infernal din, threshed out a crop in two days that would have taken a week's toil on the threshing floor. Many a man in his prime could recall riding horse at the threshing when the grain had been tramped out by hoofs on the floor of a barn.

By the first of August the crop was garnered and sacked, the portion reserved for the family's use stored in the barn, the portion to be marketed hauled to Woodridge or the mill on Big Raccoon. Young Will usually attended to the marketing of the Tomlinson wheat. It was a job for which Richard had no enthusiasm. The drama of the harvest, he loved. The mounting tension of the rush to outstrip the ever-present

threat of rain thrilled and exhilarated him. But the business of selling the crop was anticlimactic. He was glad that his younger brother seemed to enjoy it.

The second week in August brought a lull which seemed an admirable opportunity for his trip to the city. He announced his intention one evening at supper, then waited for repercussions, for seldom did a farmer journey twenty miles from home in summer. But his mother only said, "I'm afraid you'll find it pretty warm this time of year." His brother gave him an oblique look which, oddly, Richard felt called upon to answer.

"I'm going for the purpose of giving the children an outing. I've always promised to take them to Terre Haute, and summer's the time to do it, when the roads are good. You won't mind the heat, will you, boys?"

Ricky and Rodgie were immediately incoherent with excitement.

Ann Tomlinson said warningly that Richard didn't know what he was letting himself in for. "Those two are a handful anywhere. They'll get themselves killed and you too. You'd better wait till one of your sisters can go with you."

"Thorne will go with me. She's all the help I need."

"Thorne's nothing but a child herself."

"But I'm used to cities," Thorne interrupted eagerly. "I've gone about on city streets since I was smaller than Rodgie. I'll keep tight hold of each boy, Miss Ann, so Richard will be free to attend to his business."

Richard said hastily that he had no business to attend to. Young Will and Jesse Moffat exchanged glances.

Nancy Turner happened to be present, and suddenly, to Richard's chagrin, she proposed that she go with them. There was nothing, under the circumstances, with which he could have more readily dispensed than Nancy's company, but he could not refuse in the face of his mother's approval.

"That's a splendid idea, Nancy," said Miss Ann. "You can help with the children. I won't have a minute's peace if they're turned loose with Richard. They're sure to be run over by those fast horses in the city."

"You talk as though I weren't responsible, Mother."

"When you get your mind on something, Richard, you forget everything around you."

The idea seemed to persist that some errand was taking him to town.

They were up betimes next morning. Nancy spent the night with Thorne, and the two girls dressed in fluttering haste to be ready by the time the carriage and team were at the door. The little boys, so heavy with sleep that Thorne had to dress them, were stowed away on the roomy back seat, and Nancy, by right of seniority, appropriated the front seat beside Richard, to that gentleman's complete exhaustion. It was a five-hour drive to Terre Haute, and her tongue outran the horses all the way. On the back seat, Thorne and the children slept peacefully.

As soon as they reached the city the boys awoke and demanded to eat. They had been too excited for breakfast and now they were ravenous. As it was nearly noon, Richard put the horses in a livery stable and piloted his little crowd to a quiet family eating house on Wabash Avenue. Dinner at a restaurant was an unprecedented experience for at least three of his charges and would consume, he hoped, considerable time. It would be bad manners to call upon Miss Judith before two o'clock.

But long before the meal was over he felt as though the expedition had already lasted for weeks. The day was scorching. The children were restless, excited, noisy, thirsty, and embarrassingly tormented by the demands of nature. They discovered a water cooler with a fascinating little spigot which turned on and off, and they imbibed so much liquid that it seemed to their harassed young father that it went right through them. He made so many trips out of the room, with first one, then the other, that Nancy giggled insufferably and even Thorne teased him. They were all in a state of hilarity, but he was too weary by this time to smile. When he wiped Rodgie's nose and discovered too late that he had used a napkin instead of his handkerchief, he groaned. Six hours of caring for his own children had worn him threadbare. He wondered how his mother had put up with them all these years.

Upon their demand at the conclusion of the meal for further entertainment, he explained somewhat grimly that they were going to see a ladv. Thorne had received a note from their friend Miss Judith—they remembered Miss Judith, didn't they?—inviting her to call. Of course Thorne couldn't go alone, so they were all going with her. Thorne's clear eyes widdened rather blankly as she heard herself thus credited with the purely theoretical motive for the excursion. But loyally she made no comment.

They walked through the broiling heat to Mrs. Prewitt's boardinghouse and stood about in languid attitudes of boredom while Richard rang the bell. Calling on a schoolteacher was not their idea of making holiday. Watching their perspiring disappointment, he half wished he had not come. It was a fool's errand anyway. He had a mind even now to return to Timberley without seeing Judith. He was in no mental state for the delicate mission before him. He would likely make an ass of himself and be ordered from the house. He hoped fervent!}' she was not in.

Thorne hoped so too.

But Judith was in and very glad indeed to see her friends from Timberley. One glance at Richard's face was sufficient to tell her why he had come, why he had fortified himself with four limp, bedraggled children. He had thought better of his rash commitment and had come to withdraw it. Like a forewarned general, she swiftly altered her own strategy to meet the attack.

Leading the little party around to the cooler side porch, she listened to Nancy's chatter and questioned the boys and Thorne about their summer's activities until her adult caller had time to cool off. Then she brightly suggested that the young people make a visit to the ice-cream parlor just a block away. They served delicious cream and ices and had cunning little tables and chairs at which to eat them. At the mere mention of ice cream the children revived astonishingly. Ice cream was an unheard-of treat. Before Richard could collect his scattered faculties and fumble for his wallet Judith had sped up to her room and back and pressed the money into Nancy's plump, moist palm.

They were gone, the four of them, with Richard's tardy dollar bill entrusted to Thorne, and Richard flushed with embarrassment, putting his wallet back into his pocket while Judith laughed at his discomfiture.

"Don't look so concerned, Mr. Tomlinson. I'm not too impoverished to treat the children to ice cream. Besides, this is a special occasion. When they've come so far to see me I should feel quite distressed if I had to let them go back without some little gesture of hospitality."

She looked so cool and neat in her crisp green chambray, she had been so gracious and clever in her handling of his dilemma, that he looked at her admiringly, wondering if he were making a mistake in letting this woman go.

''Miss Judith—I c-can't tell you " he stammered boyishly, and fanned his hot face with his hat. He felt crumpled and untidy beside her immaculate daintiness. If he had known that his damp hair, curling moistly in the heat, gave him the artless charm of his son Ricky, he might have been even more dubious of his mission than he was.

He inquired naively if there was anyplace less public where they could talk. Judith led him into what was elegantly referred to as the garden but was literally Mrs. Prewitt's back yard. There was grass, however, and a pergola covered with Virginia creeper. They took refuge here from the torrid sunshine, and he tried to summon the thoughts he had so carefully arranged the night before.

It was a hopeless endeavor. No sooner had they entered the privacy of the little summerhouse than he found Judith's cool fingers touching his and her face uptilted temptingly close to his lips.

"Richard!" she whispered. "You don't have to tell me why you have come. I know. Only I didn't expect you so soon."

And then—he never quite knew how it happened—she was in his arms and he was kissing her with a roughness that was a compound of embarrassment, August temperature, and long-pent-up desires. Not for years had he touched a woman. Never had he held one like this. He realized with a shock that he had wanted to kiss her ever since that night at the theater.

Somewhere in the giddy tumult of his mind, whence rational thought had retreated, a disquieting note sounded clear for a single second. It was the instinctive knowledge that this woman who yielded so eagerly to his embrace was not the artless lover that she seemed but a schemer, wily and ruthless. Then his own generous nature rose, indignant, at such heresy and drowned it in fresh ardor.

There were footsteps in the yard, and Judith hastily released herself, whispering, "Mrs. Prewitt! She saw us come in here and she's followed us. Quick! We must set her straight or she'll be telling all sorts of things."

Before he had time to envision what Mrs. Prewitt might tell more incriminating than the truth, he found himself drawn across the lawn and given a rather startling introduction to the redoubtable landlady.

"Mrs. Prewitt, I want you to meet my fiance."

In his confusion he was conscious that Mrs. Prewitt was not the only recipient of the sensational announcement. Around the corner of the house came four disheveled children, replete with candy and ice cream. They had spent Richard's money as well as Judith's and now they were surfeited and ready to go home. They entered the yard in time to hear Judith add, "Mr. Tomlinson and I are going to be married in the fall."

They stood in silence while Mrs. Prewitt beamed and congratulated and crumpled an overdue board bill in her pocket. Then Nancy found voice and began gurgling, "Oh, Richard! Are you really going to marry Miss Judith? How thrilling!" and went off into a series of giggles which brought a furious frown to Richard's face and a brusque reply in confirmation. His small sons, not understanding the trend of events but not liking their father's scowl, set up a cry and blubbered piteously for Gran'ma. Altogether there was quite a commotion before the young Tomlinsons were quieted and made ready for departure. Richard had only a sketchy last moment with Judith, but she managed to make it conclusive.

"I'll send in my resignation to Staunton immediately. We'll be married in October. Tell your mother not to worry about a thing. I'll make all the plans."

He bade her good-by in a kaleidoscopic fog and looked about for Thorne, who had disappeared. It was some time before she was found behind the grape arbor, being very sick all by herself. Mrs. Prewitt said it was the ice cream; Judith said it was the heat. Richard said nothing.

He watched Thorne bathe her face at the pump and suggested that she wait on the porch with Miss Judith while he went to the livery stable for the carriage. But this proposal Thorne flatly rejected. She was perfectly able to walk; in proof of which statement, she immediately set forth. Nancy followed, and Richard, with only the briefest word of farewell, collected the little boys and hurried after. His newly betrothed watched him out of sight with a faint frown of annoyance which, fortunately, there was no one but Mrs. Prewitt to see.

CHAPTER 13

The news of Richard's forthcoming marriage was received with shocked relish everywhere but in his immediate family. The Tomlinsons maintained a discreet attitude, taking their cue from Miss Ann, whose only comment was, ''You are old enough to know what you are doing, Richard. I hope you are happy."

But in Woodridge and throughout the countryside tongues wagged aplenty. For a widower of twenty-six to marry again was to be expected. But for him to wait a bare six months and then select as his bride a stranger who had lived under his roof during his first wife's lifetime cast an interesting suspicion over the whole affair. Too many eager widows and hopeful spinsters had fixed their hopes on Richard for this action to pass unassailed. Speculations were rife concerning the precipitancy of the arrangements. It was prophesied that Abigail would turn over in her grave.

Judith, in her hot back bedroom at Mrs. Prewitt's, busily sewing on her wedding garments, shrewdly divined what the local reaction would be and prepared to offset it. She was well aware that she could not cop the prize matrimonial plum of a small rural community without making enemies. For herself, she cared not a fig. But she was determined to make the second Mrs. Tomlinson a more popular figure than the first Mrs. Tomlinson had been. If she married Richard in Terre Haute and went back to Timberley as his wife she would be forever an outlander. But if she returned to Woodridge as plain Judith Amory and married him on his own ground she would have the sympathy and good will of all who attended her wedding. And it was her plan that everyone of importance should attend.

So the first week in September she packed up, paid off Mrs. Prewitt, and departed from her select boardinghouse forever. Twenty-four hours later she was installed in the Barclays' front parlor in Woodridge, penning a chaste note to her betrothed, notifying him of her change of address. And here she waited, surrounded by Barclays all busily stitching on Judith's trousseau, while she listened for Richard's step on the walk and the ring of the Barclay doorbell.

But when the Timberley surrey stopped at the gate one afternoon it was Ann Tomlinson and not her son who had called. After a momentary qualm Judith was pleased. This was as it should be. Whatever Ann Tomlinson's personal feelings might be regarding this marriage—and Judith had a lively suspicion of their nature—Richard's mother was prepared to do the correct thing.

"My son tells me that you plan to be married in Wood-ridge." Miss Ann went straight to the point as soon as greetings were disposed of. Judith had conveyed this information in her note.

Actually, she had no such plan in mind. The wedding she visualized could never be encompassed in the Barclays' tiny dwelling. But she intended letting Richard—or his mother--make the suggestion that would accomplish her purpose.

"I dislike the idea of being married in a boardinghouse," said Judith wistfully. It was an effective touch. Miss Ann softened.

"I'm sure Richard would never have let you be married from a boardinghouse, even in Terre Haute. Now that you're in Woodridge you must have a church wedding at our own church."

But Judith favored a home wedding. "It's so much more intimate, I think. Of course, I have no home, but Mrs. Barclay has kindly consented to let me be married from here. I hope it won't put her to too much trouble."

The Barclays, mother and daughters, interrupted in concert. It was no trouble at all. Their only fear was that they would never be able to get all the guests inside their tiny cottage.

"You plan to have guests, Judith?" asked Miss Ann dubiously. She had talked to her son and he had agreed with her that the quieter the wedding could be made, the better. Neither of them had spoken the thought aloud, but it was in the mind of each that festivities of any kind were in bad taste so soon after Abigail's death.

But Judith had no such scruples. "I want everyone at my wedding whom I hope to have for a friend, and that means practically everyone Richard knows. It's hard enough for a second wife to win a place for herself, without having hurt feelings on all sides to start with."

Ann Tomlinson could have explained that in this community it was harder to live down scandal than to cope with hurt feelings. But she held her tongue. And when the younger woman said, "You don't know how much it means to me to have Richard's friends like me. You see, I have none of my own," the prejudice which Miss Ann had felt since the night she discovered the schoolteacher's love for her son was forcibly put aside. Judith was not the daughter-in-law she would have chosen, but she was a young woman entering into her first marriage and entitled to the favors which are a bride's prerogative. If she wanted a home wedding, then a home wedding she should have. But it must not be at the Barclays'.

"If you plan to invite all Richard's friends you'd better be married at Timberley. It's the only house around here large enough to hold them."

Judith dropped her eyes before Ann Tomlinson caught their sparkle of triumph.

"Do you suppose it would be proper?" she demurred for the sake of appearances. "I mean, being married from the home of the bridegroom."

Quite as proper as being married six months after his first

wife's death, said the gleam in Miss Ann's eyes. But she answered kindly:

"It was your home last winter. It will be your home from now on. Under the circumstances I think you should return at once to Timberley and make all your arrangements from there."

This was what Judith had been angling for from the start. Now she need not be separated from Richard during this tiresome interval of waiting. But before she could express her pleasure at the invitation her future mother-in-law dashed her hopes.

"Fortunately an old college chum of Richard's has been wanting him to come to Greencastle and he can pay him a visit now as well as later."

Judith's face was a study in chagrin. "You mean Richard won't be at home?"

"Oh no. It would not do for the bride and groom to live under the same roof before their marriage," said Miss Ann calmly.

To Judith this attitude was sheer stupidity. Her first furious disappointment almost erupted in words. She had counted on this time with Richard to further bind him to her, for she was not yet sure of him. She had not seen him since that day in Mrs. Prewitt's garden, and their only intercourse had been a brief correspondence. She had no fear that he would try to jilt her, for he was a gentleman. But she was uneasily aware that she had taken him by surprise and that he might have regretted his capitulation. She had hoped for a chance to rekindle him. Now all her wiles were useless. Silently she cursed the hidebound conventionalitv of this rural community which forbade him her lips before their marriage night.

But she kept her disappointment to herself and decided to make the most of her opportunities. At least she would have nothing to distract her from her immediate objective, which was to stage a wedding at Timberley which should be the talk of the county. Three days later she returned, laden with goods bought on credit, and took personal charge of arrangements.

The Tomlinson women, catching a certain fire from her enthusiasm, good-naturedly followed her leadership. Kate, Jane, Nancy Turner, and Cousin Lutie Simms practically moved into the house to assist in the preparations. They sewed, cooked, cleaned, and garnished until the house bloomed like an autumn garden. A little bower of late fall flowers was erected in front of the drawn curtains of the alcove, and here the wedding ceremony was to be performed.

It was not until the last moment that Judith had the inspiration about Thorne. She had planned from the first that Richard's little sons were to be ring bearers. Kate and Cousin Lutie had cut up an old velveteen skirt of Miss Ann's and under Judith's direction had fashioned clever little pageboy suits for Ricky and Rodgie. She was using the double-ring ceremony (to the secret confusion of the easygoing Methodist minister), and Thorne was making two tiny satin pillows for the rings to lie on.

It was while watching Thorne bent silently over her work that the idea came to Judith. For the first time since her return she found herself really looking at the child. Either Thorne had avoided her, or Judith had been too busy to notice anyone in whom she was not interested. She had not bothered to apologize, when she found she had dispossessed Thorne from the bird's-eye-maple room, but she had invited her to share it until the wedding. Thorne, already installed in her old berth with the children, preferred to remain where she was. It came to Judith now that Thorne's feelings were hurt because the boys had a part in the wedding and she hadn't.

To Judith, personally, nothing was less important than Thorne's feelings. But she forced herself to recall that Richard made no difference between this girl and his own children. She did not intend to snare her enterprise on the reef which

had wrecked Abigail. Not at the outset, anyway. Richard must be pleased with every detail of the wedding, and Thorne moping in a corner was sure to catch his eye.

"How would you like to be in the wedding, Thorne?" she asked brightly, and watched with interest the startled uplift of the curly dark head.

"Judith, I think that's the smartest notion you've had yet," said Cousin Lutie, who was putting the finishing touches to the bridal veil. "If there's one thing that'd make Richard happy at his wedding it'd be to have Thorne standing beside him."

It was an unfortunate remark, Judith discounted it, as coming from a person of no consequence, and continued watching Thorne, who dropped her eyes to her work again.

"There's yards of that tulle left over, plenty to make you a dress. You can wear my satin sash and carry a basket of roses as flower girl. You're too young to be a maid of honor, but I really should have an attendant since Will is acting as Richard's best man. Would you like that, Thorne?"

"Do you think Richard would like it?" asked Thorne.

Annoyance flushed Judith's cheek. Any other girl of fourteen would have thrilled at the invitation. She had half a mind to retort that Nancy Turner was available if Thorne was not interested. Then she recalled her purpose in conciliating this strange child.

"As Cousin Lutie says, I'm sure Richard would be pleased to have all his children taking part in his wedding." Thus, having put Thorne in her place—back in the nursery—Judith gave orders that the tulle dress should be made up.

The wedding was set for the first Friday in October. Relatives from as far away as Bainbridge were expected, and from Monday morning till Thursday night the house buzzed with preparations for overnight guests. Judith came upon Miss Ann one morning emerging from the downstairs bedroom, her arms full of window curtains for the washtub.

"You're not cleaning that room?" she said blankly.

"Yes indeed. It's the first good cleaning it's had since ''"

Miss Ann stopped just in time. "We passed this room up on spring house cleaning, so it's due for a real turnout now. We're clearing everything out of the closet so..."

"The closet! Why bother with closets at a time like this?" The sharp tone brought a flush to the older woman's cheeks and Judith realized her voice had risen unnecessarily.

"I mean, you've done so much already, Miss Ann. I'm afraid you'll overdo. Guests who are only staying the night are not likely to go poking into closets."

"This room is not for overnight guests," explained Ann Tomlinson. "This room is the bridal chamber."

For a second Judith could neither move nor speak. Then she shivered, as though a cold wind had passed over her. Why had she not foreseen such an eventuality? She had taken for granted that she and Richard would occupy the bird's-eye-maple room. She had overlooked the fact that the downstairs bedroom was and always had been his room, built for him as a lad, with his own private entrance, long before his marriage to Abigail. He would expect, naturally, to go on living in his own quarters. And he would expect Judith to live there with him, in the room in which she had watched a dying woman fight for breath. . . .

A sudden paroxysm gripped her throat. She felt as though she were choking. When she spoke her voice was so queer that Ann Tomlinson noted with concern her strange pallor. Like so many brides, Judith was wearing herself out before her wedding.

"Miss Ann, I don't want to seem difficult—but I'd much prefer staying—for the present—in my old room upstairs. I believe Richard will understand—when I explain to him."

Ann Tomlinson understood. She had hinted to her son that his second wife might find unpleasant associations in the room where his first wife died, but he had scoffed at the idea. Judith was too level-headed to mind a thing like that. Besides, the bird's-eye-maple room had been given to Thorne, and as soon as the wedding was over she was going to move back into it. He had considered the matter settled when he departed for Greencastle.

He did not return until the day before the wedding. It was his mother, not Judith, who informed him of the changed arrangements.

"Now don't say anything you'll be sorry for, Richard" (as he started to explode). "It's a natural feeling for a new wife to have. Judith may be above the average in brains, but she's a woman like the rest of us. No woman wants to start her married life in the bed where her predecessor died." It was a double-barreled word for Miss Ann, but she brought it forth roundly, clinching her argument. Richard, somewhat grudgingly, gave in.

"It's only for one night, though, I warn you. As soon as the company's gone Thorne's moving back into her own room."

Judith did not see him until they met in the dining room on Thursday evening. The minister, Mr. Jameson, Lucius Goff, and John Barclay were'already gathered there in view of the wedding rehearsal which was to take place after supper. As Judith came in she wondered anxiously how Richard would greet her before his family and friends. She hoped for something a trifle warmer than a handshake. But she was not prepared for the charming gallantry with which he lifted the hand she gave him to his lips.

"Where did you learn that pretty gesture?" She smiled to hide her delight in him.

"It was Lucius's idea." He and Lucius had come out from town together. "Lucius holds that ladies of the—er—intellectual type prefer a kiss on the hand to a kiss on the lips." He looked down at her with a meaning twinkle. "I did not undeceive him."

If there was impudent reminder in his smile, there was also promise. Her last uncertainty vanished. She was thrillingly happy.

The rehearsal was the prolonged, nerve-racking ordeal such occasions usually are. The children were boisterous, young Will swore audibly at the confusion of the two rings, and John Barclay got lost in a medley of both wedding marches. The bewildered minister perspired freely and wished Lucius Goff had license to officiate since he seemed the only person present, except the bride, who knew what was going on. Lucius, who had covered many fashionable weddings for his paper, was in his element. Under his guidance the rehearsal was finally got through. But it was a late hour when the womenfolk retired, leaving the downstairs rooms to the bridegroom and his friends, whose traditional privilege it was to make merry till all hours.

Judith had hoped for a moment alone with Richard, but it was not to be. The house was full of men and others were arriving. To have remained among them would have offended rural propriety. So she made her good nights general and withdrew.

Thorne also slipped away, but not before Richard spied her. He caught her at the foot of the stairs and swung her clear off the floor in a hearty hug, demanding to know where she had been hiding all evening.

"I've been away, young lady, or hadn't you noticed? And not so much as a welcome home from you. Look up here," he commanded. "Give me a kiss."

She lifted her face obediently and they kissed. Two arms went round his neck and he held her close. There was a moment of poignant awareness that this was the end of something precious; the beginning of some loss. Then she drew quickly away from him and said:

"It's you who haven't noticed anything all evening. I was at supper and I was in the rehearsal, but you didn't see me. You were in a fog."

And laughing at the blankness of his face, she ran swiftly up the stairs.

CHAPTER 14

It was the prettiest wedding ever seen in Woods County (so the Woodridge Sentinel reported), and the prettiest thing in the wedding was Thorne (which the Sentinel did not report). From the moment Judith saw her in the tulle dress she realized it had been a mistake to dress Thorne up. With her curls caught in a band of pink ribbon and a little flower basket on her arm, she looked like one of her own roses. No doubt it was her old training in stagecraft that taught her to walk with that slow poised grace. But as she moved down the stairs ahead of the bride, the eyes of the guests fastened on the flower girl and went no farther. Judith was in an ill frame of mind by the time she reached the altar.

Then she saw Richard, looking handsomer than ever in a new black broadcloth suit, and her annoyance was forgotten in the thrill of her achievement.

The ritual, so tediously rehearsed, proceeded without a hitch. The children behaved impeccably. The rings were not dropped. The minister coughed only twice. The solemn hush that filled the rooms lingered even after the final words were spoken.

Then it was shattered startlingly by the shrill high voice of old age.

"They're standing right on the spot where Abigail was laid out."

The speaker was old Judge Shane, a local patriarch, stone deaf and embarrassingly given to thinking out loud. For a shocked second the incident put a slight damper on the newly made marriage.

Then John Barclay's hands upon the piano plunged into the Mendelssohn march, and suddenly it was the merriest

gathering imaginable. Perhaps it was because Lucius Goff took hold, and he was slightly exhilarated. Perhaps the old Judge's soliloquizing had made everyone a bit hysterical. Perhaps, as Ellen Barclay said afterward, it was a relief to find you could laugh and cut up again at Tomlinson's after all those years of having to mind your P's and Q's on account of Abigail. Whatever the cause, there had never been seen so much backslapping and handshaking and kissing of girls—old and young.

Ann Tomlinson, looking sedately festive in gray poplin, stood in the dining room with Dr. Caxton and watched the loaded table swept clean again and again by the onslaughts made upon it. Baked hams, fried chickens, cakes, pies, and jellies disappeared as though a swarm of locusts had passed over. As fast as they vanished replenishments came through the covered passage from Millie's inexhaustible kitchen, borne by Cousin Lutie and Henry Schook's wife, who was "helping out." The preacher was heard to sigh, "It's discouraging to see so many good things before you, when you've already had more than you should eat." Mr. Jameson's popularity with the ladies put him in a fair way to rival Jesse Moffat as a trencherman.

Ann's eyes met the doctor's and they both smiled. These two understood each other. They belonged to the same generation. He had been her husband's friend. She was not afraid to let him see, behind her smile, her mind's unease regarding this marriage.

"You've set a new goal for local society tonight, Ann."

"I'm afraid that was not what I was aiming at. Doctor."

"You don't feel right about this wedding, do you?"

"I wish Richard had waited longer."

"I shouldn't worry on that score. Considering the life Abigail led him, I think six months' mourning was too damn good for her."

"I don't mean—on Abigail's account. Though considering Otis Huse's sharp tongue, I think it would have been wiser. But it's Richard I'm thinking of. He's never had a chance to be a bachelor. We married him off so soon. Every young man needs a little time of freedom. And now—just six months after his release from " She looked at him with eyes suddenly moist.

"You know how it was."

He said fervently, "God knows I do," and then they both were silent.

"It won't be like that this time," he went on. "Richard's getting a healthy wife; one who, if I'm any judge, has plenty to offer a husband. You must remember he's human, Ann." He added bluntly, "He needs a woman."

"He needs love," said Richard's mother.

"Bah! There's no such thing," scoffed the old cynic.

There was dancing in the front room. From somewhere John Barclay's violin had appeared and Lucius Goff had organized a Virginia reel. Hearing the rhythm of tapping feet and stringed music, Ann Tomlinson glanced anxiously at the minister. But Mr. Jameson was still surrounded by attentive ladies bent on giving him indigestion and apparently oblivious of the turn the festivities had taken.

"I suppose I should go in and stop them," Ann murmured dubiously.

"You'll do no such thing," growled the doctor.

Nevertheless, she hurried down the hall, still doubtful of the propriety of Terpsichore and Theology consorting. The doctor followed, snorting, at her heels.

The dance was in full swing. Every man young enough to twirl and sashay had captured a partner and was cutting as lively a figure as Sunday breeches and tight shoes would permit. The voluminous skirts of the ladies dipped and swirled. It was a pretty sight. Eyes sparkled and cheeks glowed with the rollicking exercise. The doctor muttered in his companion's ear, "Now if you can see anything wrong in that I'll eat Jameson's coattails, swallow by swallow."

Ann looked about for Richard. He was not dancing. He was standing apart, watching his bride dance with Lucius Goff.

Judith danced well, if somewhat stiffly, in a far more ladylike fashion than the others, who were growing more boisterous with each round. Richard's eyes followed her, smiling, as though he approved the way she danced. She caught his eye, and as the next turn of the reel deposited her near him Miss Ann heard her say, "Please, Richard, come on. I'd much rather dance with you."

"I think I'd better wait till Mr. Jameson leaves."

"If you feel that way, I shouldn't be dancing either,"

"But I want you to dance. I've no objection personally.

It's just that—on Mother's account There! It's your turn.

Hurry, or you'll miss Lucius."

As she swung back into line to meet her partner Dr. Caxton muttered to Ann Tomlinson:

"See what you've done wdth your bluestocking notions? Made a wallflower of the best dancer in the room. I know," he replied in answer to her surprised look. "I saw him dance a schottische one night at Henderson's. If you don't go tell him to get in that reel I'll go and push him in."

But before she could take action the two were cut off from Richard by a swarm of children who had been playing blind-man's buff out of doors. They flung themselves upon Richard, clamoring that they wanted to dance too. A junior reel was organized, composed of the Turner boys and Nancy, the younger Barclay girls, Richard's two youngsters, and Thorne. In the scramble to pair off, Thorne was left without a partner. She seized Richard's hands and pulled him into the dance. He seemed to need no urging.

It was a sight worth watching, the way those two danced together. Like many tall men, Richard was surprisingly light on his feet, and Thorne was like blown thistledown. Before long everyone else had stopped dancing to watch them.

Judith stopped dancing and stood quite still. She had taken Richard's refusal to dance with her as a subterfuge to hide his deficiency in the graceful art. She had not dreamed he could dance like that. Ann Tomlinson, catching a glimpse of her new daughter-in-law's face, recalled sharply the taste of a green persimmon.

As Thorne came tripping down the line, hands outstretched that Richard might twirl her, Judith made a movement swift as a darting hawk. She seized the hands before Richard could reach them and pulled Thorne out of the dance.

"You've stayed up long enough, Thorne. It's past your bedtime. You'd better go upstairs."

The cold, harsh command was astounding. Fortunately only a few people heard, for the room was crowded. But those few looked blank with consternation. Richard's own boys—six and seven—were staying up as late as their elders. Thorne, fourteen, was being sent to bed like a naughty child.

Ann Tomlinson looked at her son. Richard's face was a stony mask.

The doctor said softly, "She shouldn't have done that."

Ann whispered, "what do you think he'll do?"

"What can he do?" growled the doctor. "Just married. He can't start arguing with the woman before he's even bedded her."

Ann turned to look for Thorne. She had vanished. Judith was explaining sweetly, graciously, to a roomful of curious people that she was asking them all to stop dancing in deference to Mr. Jameson.

"I know Miss Ann doesn't think we're showing proper respect to the minister."

Dr. Caxton mumbled in his beard, "Something tells me Abigail was a houscbroken angel compared to this filly."

Fortunately no one heard him.

Richard's foot was as light on the stairs as it had been in the dance. No one heard him go up. He paused outside the door of his mother's room and listened to a sound of mufHed sobbing within. He tried the door. It was locked.

He called softly, but the sobs seemed to come from beneath a pillow. He dared not lift his voice. He would be heard downstairs before he was heard within the smothering feathers of his mother's bed.

His heart ached for the unseen weeper. He blamed himself for the whole stupid business. He had committed an unpardonable error in dancing, even with the children, after refusing his bride. He tried generously to excuse Judith. She had reason to be hurt by his behavior.

But she had no right to vent her feelings upon Thorne. His first shocked anger at Judith flamed again, frightening him by its vehemence. This was no way to feel toward the wife he had just wedded. But she had no cause to reprimand the child in that shameful fashion before a roomful of people. She had behaved exactly like—Abigail.

His thoughts retreated in panic haste from that comparison.

He put his ear to the door. Mingled now with the sobbing was an audible refrain, repeated over and over.

"I wish I was dead. Oh, I wish I was dead."

Strangely, the forlorn little wail reassured rather than alarmed him. It was the moan of childhood, wishing itself dead because of some injury, real or fancied. He smiled and drew his hand caressingly across the hard-oak door. Then he turned and went back downstairs.

He had not been missed. Judith was preparing to toss her bridal bouquet, and it was well that he came down when he did or they would have passed on the stairs. He stood in the hall below and watched her lean from the rail of the landing and throw the flowers straight into the hands of the oldest Barclay girl, and he knew she had done it to please him. John Barclay was his friend, and it was fitting that one of his five daughters should receive the hopeful token. Judith was very tactful. But Richard, watching the giggling maidens, could think only of Thorne, who should have had a part in this pretty scene, sobbing her heart out upstairs.

He went out onto the side porch, where some of the more convivial spirits had been withdrawing at intervals all evening. It was as he suspected. Something more potent than his mother's raspberry shrub was circulating. One of the Henderson boys had brought it from town. When he was invited to sample the fiery nectar he did not refuse. He had to get rid of this feeling he had toward Judith. If he did not go to her tonight a little drunk he might not go to her at all.

Judith sat before the mirror in the bird's-eye-maple room alone at last. It was the custom of the community, so she had learned, for all the marriageable women to gather in the bridal chamber and help the bride disrobe. She had meekly submitted to this barbarous rite, but first she had locked the bureau drawer which hid her wedding nightgown. It was not the virginal garment which the ladies of Woods County would be expecting. Now, rid of her unwelcome attendants, she quickly unbuttoned the thick muslin gown in which they had sheathed her.

It was a handsome gown, hand-tucked and embroidered, a gift from Richard's sister in Kentucky. The sleeves came down to her wrists; the yoke was finished with a ruffle at the throat. She unfastened a dozen fine pearl buttons before the heavy nightdress fell to her feet.

Unlocking the bureau drawer, she took out another gown and slipped it over her head. It was not quite transparent, but it might as well have been. She had made this gown herself  in secret. No one, not even Cousin Lutie, had seen it. It fell about her body like trailing mist.

She was trembling now, weak with apprehension. She had watched Richard's face, following that little scene with Thorne. what had come over her to make her behave like that? All along her every conscious effort had been to conciliate and win Thorne's friendship. And suddenly she had pounced on the child and ordered her off to bed as though something had taken possession of her; some malevolent imp, bent on causing her to do the one thing that would alienate Richard on her bridal night. It almost seemed as if some power outside herself had driven her to wreck her own happiness by behaving like—Abigail.

She gazed into the mirror fearfully as she whispered the name.

It was the first time she had let herself think of Abigail since the day she met Miss Ann coming out of the downstairs bedroom. Now, curiously, the thought of the dead woman brought no reminder of anything that had happened in that room, only a vivid recollection of Abigail's jealous hatred of Thorne. That hatred had puzzled Judith once. It alarmed her now. Because now she had felt it too. She had taken it unto herself this very night, as she had taken Abigail's husband. And it had caused her to behave as Abigail would have behaved. The thought was sinister; it was frightening.

Of course she would never let it happen again. She would watch herself. She would explain to Richard that she had been momentarily ill—or disturbed about the minister—or something—if it was not too late. . . .

The house was quiet now. All the overnight guests had retired. Doors along the hall were closed. Voices and footsteps were silent. Still he had not come to her.

Was he too angry to come? If he did come, would he desire her? Judith's eyes grew haggard with waiting as the little clock on her dresser ticked away the minutes of her marriage night.

A wind was rising. The branches of the locust trees lashed against her window like frantic arms beseeching entrance. The tall house moaned and sighed. A creaking sound moved up the stairs, and for a moment she knew a thrill of pure terror. Then she recognized it as a footstep moving slowly—reluctantly?— toward her door. When the light tap sounded discreetly she had no voice to answer the summons. A stricture, like a band, tightened about her throat.

He came in softly and closed the door. They looked at each other in silence. She feared that the flush on his face was anger and that he had come to have it out with her. Then she saw that he had been drinking. He must have been exceedingly wroth with her, for he was not a drinking man; but if the drink had dulled his anger she did not care.

He came slowly across the room to her and stood looking down at the misty nightgown. Its charm was not wasted. Whatever had been on his mind when he entered was not there now. She smiled, half giddy with relief, and felt herself lifted in his arms.

But even as she was borne to the marriage bed she had a strange conviction that he had not come to her like a bridegroom. He had come, as his look betrayed, like a guilty lover keeping a rendezvous.

The big house groaned and creaked throughout the night. The wind whined at the windows and rapped at the doors; it stole in through the cracks and went sighing through the halls and passages. It was an increasingly chill and bitter wind, as though its mission was to blow summer and soft pleasure away. The household slept but fitfully. There were numerous calls for more bedcovers. Miss Ann, going downstairs in the small hours to fetch a drink for the wakeful children, encountered Cousin Lutie getting a snack from the kitchen in the hope that it might induce sleep. She hadn't closed her eyes all night, she declared. Miss Ann said that Thorne seemed the only one in her room able to sleep. ''And she's sleeping so heavily, it frightened me. I thought when I lit my candle that she had stopped breathing."

"The witches are sure riding tonight," said Cousin Lutie as they trudged back upstairs together. Miss Ann thought it would either rain or snow before morning.

But toward morning the fierce gale subsided. Suddenly, ominously, there was hushed stillness in the starless hour before dawn. Weary bed tossers turned on their sides and sank into heavy slumber. Miss Ann looked at Thorne and saw that color had crept back into her pale cheeks, the deathlike stillness of her body had relaxed. She was warm and moist and breathing naturally. With a sigh of relief Miss Ann lay down beside her and fell into restful slumber.

In the bridal chamber Judith, sleeping in her lover's arms, had a strange, disquieting dream.

She thought she was standing before her old pupils in Tim-berley schoolhouse. In the midst of hearing a class she suddenly discovered that she had no clothes on. Her pupils were staring at her with horrible relish, and she saw that they were not the children of Timberley district, they were the silly women who had undressed her for her bridal bed. They had stolen her clothes and left her nothing, not even the misty nightgown. She demanded indignantly, "Who did this?" And they all giggled, pointing to a rear desk where someone hid behind a big Atlas. "She did it!" they chorused. "It's one of her tricks." It was Thorne's desk to which they pointed.

Judith seized a riding whip and went down the aisle between the seats and cried in a choking voice, "Come out from behind that Atlas. You can't play tricks on me. Tell me what you did with my clothes or I'll flog you." But when she jerked the Atlas away from the culprit, it was not Thorne who looked back at her. It was Abigail. She was dead and they all knew she was dead. Yet she moved among them as though she were living.

Judith awoke from this dream in shuddering terror and clung to Richard. He did not waken, but his arms about her tightened automatically. Gradually reality asserted itself. She had been the victim of nightmare. But the macabre qualitv of the dream had been so peculiarly vivid that it was a long while before she slept.

The sun rose clear and cold on a world of extreme untidiness. The lawn of Timberley looked as though it had been the playground of imps and demons. Trees and shrubs were stripped of leaves, and their naked hmbs were decked with debris from all over the neighborhood. Or was it debris. . .

Jesse Moffat was late getting down that morning, owing to difficulty in finding his socks. He finally put his bare feet in his boots and came down to the kitchen to start the fire for the lavish breakfast which must be prepared for the houseful of guests. When he ignited his fresh-laid fire, smoke belched into his face. He examined the drafts in the stove. There appeared to be some obstruction in the pipe. Smoke rapidly filled the low-ceilinged room.

Millie, in her room over the kitchen, smelled smoke and yelled, "Fiah!" As she came clattering down the back stairs Jesse hushed her sternly.

"Do you want to scare everybody in the house? Nothing's on fire. The pipe's stopped up. Here, give me a hand and we'll see what's blocking it."

They took down a section of the stovepipe and found it stuffed with what appeared at first to be rags.

"Rags, nothin'!" snorted Millie. "Them's somebody's clo'es."

And clothes they were. Wearing apparel of divers sorts stuffed the stovepipe far into the chimney. When Jesse pulled the last article out he found to his amazement a handsome pair of new whipcord breeches.

"If those aren't the pants Lucius Goff was wearing last night, I'll eat my hat!"

"Who do you s'pose played a low-down dirty trick like that?" said Millie. "Stuffin' folkses' best clothes in that ole chimney. Looky there! Nice white shirts covered with soot, coats and pants that'll nevah come clean."

Jesse said, "I looked for 'em to play pranks at this wedding, but spoiling good clothes is going too far."

"Wait'll Miss Ann sees this," said Millie. "Somebody'll get a blistered behind."

"Maybe the felloW that did this is too old to blister," grinned Jesse.

When Miss Ann appeared she demanded sternly, "Where are everyone's clothes? Someone sneaked through all the rooms last night and stole the clothing of our guests. Are you the culprit, Jesse Moffat?"

The hired man's denial was emphatic. "Look what I found in the chimney." He pointed to the sooty clothes upon the floor.

Ann Tomlinson was angrier than either of the two had ever seen her.

"A charivari is one thing. A stupid joke like this is a disgrace to Tomlinson hospitality. If I find that any member of this household had a hand in it, he shall certainly hear from me."

There was commotion now through all the house. Doors were slamming, excited voices clamoring. Feminine squeals and masculine growls were mingled in a rising chorus of indignation. Will Tomlinson charged down the back stairs in his nightshirt, demanding, "Who hung my drawers at the top of the big locust tree?" The little group in the kitchen stared at him blankly.

"At the top of the tree!" said his mother.

"At the very tip of the topmost branch. If you don't believe me, go look. I saw them from my bedroom window. It's disgraceful."

They all hurried outdoors. A weird spectacle greeted them. The trees and shrubs of Timberley bore strange foliage. It was as though the wind, which had stripped them of their autumn glory, had swept through the house collecting what it could to clothe their nakedness. Neckties, socks, and handkerchiefs fluttered from airy twigs; waistcoats, pantaloons, and petticoats dangled grotesquely from boughs. Nor were they hung on lower limbs where they could be easily picked off. They were suspended from the highest and most inaccessible branches.

"No man—or woman either—could possibly have crawled up there," said a voice behind Miss Ann. It was Lucius Goff, in night clothes and greatcoat, shivering with excitement.

They were all coming down, guests and relatives; a fantastic little company of half-clad people wrapped in shawls and cloaks, for the morning air was crisp. Good nature predominated, though some were inquiring rather pointedly if anything of the Tomlinsons had been touched.

The Tomlinsons, fortunately, had suffered as much as anyone. Miss Ann's stays decorated the pasture fence. Jesse Moffat's socks hung from the top of the windmill. Even the bride had not escaped. The bridal underclothing—which the women had neatly folded the night before—was draped over the tops of the two tall poplars that guarded the family burial ground.

Only one Tomlinson had been passed over by this angel (or demon) of mischief. Nothing belonging to Richard had been touched.

"Where's Thorne?" someone asked suddenly.

It was Judith. She had come down with Richard when the murmuring excitement spreading through the house had reached their room. She had not yet discovered her own loss when Richard, wrapped in a dressing gown, had stepped out into the hall to see what was happening. When he reported that someone had been playing jokes and everyone's clothes were missing Judith had laughed. It all seemed part of the delirium of the night and the luxurious detachment of the morning. And then she glanced toward the chair where her own garments were laid and—she saw that the chair was empty.

Springing from bed in queer panic, she searched frantically all over the room. Her clothes were gone. Richard laughed at her consternation.

"You don't think they'd pass up the bridal chamber," he teased.

"Nothing of yours is gone," said Judith. Her face was pale. She remembered her dream.

But she followed Richard downstairs and listened to the talk of the others. The two cousins from Bridgeport—small, wiry lads and notorious practical jokers—were the favorite suspects. They in turn afHrmed their belief that Richard was the culprit, since nothing of his had been touched. Lucius Goff retorted that Richard had something better to do last night than play pranks on his guests, and then blushed at his own ribaldry when he saw Judith appear with her husband.

"Granted someone was agile enough to climb up there," he said hastily, "granted he was able to collect clothes from every room without waking anyone, I still don't see how he had time to hang so many small articles in so many outlandish places."

"Working by himself, he couldn't," said young Will, "but if he was twins he might," and he cast a dark look at the cousins from Bridgeport.

One of them said quickly, "Nothing but a cat could have crawled that high."

"Or a child," amended his brother.

At this implication Miss Ann said emphatically, "The children slept in my room. I was up and down with them all night. Not one of them could have left his bed without my knowing

it."

"Thorne too?" asked Judith.

Richard gave her a look which she pretended not to sec. But other voices took up the question. Where was Thorne? All who had seen her dance the night before suddenly recalled that her body had seemed as light as thistledown. Would those branches bear her weight?

Ann Tomlinson put an end to all conjecture. "Thorne didn't stir all night. I know, because she slept with me. And she slept like the dead."

Judith shivered. It was just a wedding prank, but it was so queerly, so damnably, like her dream.

It took the better part of the day to dislodge all the pilfered clothing. Ladders were requisitioned; boys with fishing poles

were sent up into the trees. When the last piece of wearing apparel had been extricated from a willow down on the creek the owner was heard to declare, "By golly! There must have been a witch in that house last night." And that was what everyone was saying by the time the tale reached Woodridge.

CHAPTER 15

Seasons were reversed in the country. Winter, the period of greatest activity in town, was the farmer's time of relaxation. Judith had been well aware of this fact when she insisted upon a fall wedding.

She had plans for the winter. It would have shocked the entire family had it been known how long these plans had been incubating. From the moment she first set foot in the house, not quite one year ago, she had mentally tabulated certain changes she would like to make at Timberley.

But she was not long discovering that living among the Tomlinsons as a daughter-in-law was quite another thing to living among them as a boarder. The winter before she had found them completely charming. They were quite as charming now. But she had never been so aware of their formidable unity until she became one of the family. She began to feci that she had married, not a man, but a tribal community in which married daughters, sons-in-law, and grandchildren had an equal vote with herself. She never had a moment alone with Richard except at bedtime.

Of all the family she preferred young Will, because he was silent and sullen and usually took himself off after supper, either to his own room or into town to see some girl. He had no steady sweetheart, and his trips into Woodridge were matters of anxiety to his mother. After talking to him subtly once or twice, Judith decided that there was basis for Miss Ann's fears. The lad was lonely and in fair danger to get into bad company. He should have had a nice girl whom he could eventually marry. She tucked this knowledge away for future reference and dismissed young Will from her immediate calculations.

She wished she could dismiss the rest of the family as easily. She had, by Thanksgiving, done nothing toward furthering her plans for making Timberley the center of a charming little group of intellectual society and gradually shedding the burden of constantly entertaining relatives and family friends. Richard's education and talents fitted him for leadership in such a society. All he had ever lacked had been a charming cultured wife for hostess.

Early in November she proposed to Richard that they give a small party; just a few congenial spirits interested in discussing something besides neighborhood affairs. He grasped her idea immediately and was enthusiastic. They began to discuss the chosen few—and struck a snag. He insisted that any such gathering at Timberley should include Doc Baird. She had difficulty in making him understand that the local blacksmith was not her idea of gentility. She decided to postpone the whole thing until after the holidays and concentrate on small innovations.

These could be lumped under two heads: domestic and religious. Under the first came house furnishings and service at meals. Under the second, family worship. Her idea on this point was iconoclastic. The family altar had no place in the picture she was creating of modern life in a postwar Timberley. But she was too wise to suggest this to Richard just yet.