turned dark, full of quivering emotion, and she put her hand to her eyes.
"Alva, tell me what you mean? I feel frightened, – I must know what's back of it all now. Tell me. Tell me!"
"I'm going to tell you in just a minute, as soon as I've shown you all over the house." She took her handkerchief, pressed it to her eyes, made a great, choking effort at self-control, and then managed to go on speaking. "See," pushing open a door, "this is a nice little dressing-room, isn't it? And then around and through this narrow back hall comes the kitchen. There is an up-stairs, but I've done nothing there except make a room comfortable and pleasant for the Japanese servant who will do the work, that is, all that I don't do myself."
"Won't you want but one servant?"
"I think so. A man from outside will take the extras, and really it's a very small house, dear. The laundry will be sent out. Dear me, how I do enjoy hearing that kind of speech from my own lips. 'The laundry will be sent out!' That sounds so delightfully commonplace, so sort of everyday and like other people. I can't express to you what the commonplaces, the little monotonies of ordinary lives, mean to me here. You'll divine later, perhaps. But fancy a married life where nothing is too trivial to be glorified! That is how things will be with us."
"Are you so sure?" Lassie tried to smile and speak archly. Tried very hard to do both, because an intangible atmosphere of sorrow was beginning to press heavily on her spirits.
"Very sure, – really, quite confident. You must not think that, because I sob suddenly as I did just now, I am ever weak or ever doubt myself or any one else. I never doubt or waver. It is only that no matter how hard one tries, one can hardly rise completely out of the thrall of one existence into the freedom of another at only a week's notice."
"Is that what you are trying to do?"
"Dear, I'm not only trying to do it, but the greater part of the time I do do it. It's only very seldom that my soul faints and the tears come. I am really happy! You are not going to be able to comprehend how happy I am. Every one who wants anything in this world always wants it in such a narrow, finite way, – no one can understand joy too limitless to be finite. The difficulty is that occasionally I get blind myself, or else in mercy God sometimes veils the splendor for a few minutes. When I faint or struggle, it is just that my soul is absent; you must not mind when you see me suffer, for the suffering has no meaning. It's just a sort of discipline, – it doesn't count." She smiled with wonderful brightness into Lassie's troubled face, and then, pushing open the outer door, – "You don't quite see how it is, but be patient with yourself, dearie; it will come. All things come to him who waits."
"Oh, but I don't understand, not one bit," Lassie cried, almost despairingly.
They were in the yard now; Alva looked at her and took her hand within her own. "Come," she said, "we'll go down through the woods to a certain lovely, bright spot where the view is big and wide, and there I'll tell you all about it."
"I so want to know!"
"I know you do, dear, and I want to tell you, too. I'm not purposely tormenting you, but there is no one else to whom I can speak. And that human, sobbing part of me needs companionship just as much these days, as the merry, house-loving spirit, or the beatifically blessed soul. Can't you see, dear, that with all my affection for you, I dread telling you my story, and the reason for that is that it will be too much for you to comprehend at first, and that I know perfectly well that it is going to shock and pain you." The last words burst forth like a storm repressed.
"Shock and pain me!" Lassie opened mouth and eyes.
"Yes, dear, of a certainty."
They were in the woods, quite alone.
Involuntarily Lassie drew a little away; a common, cruel suspicion flashed through her head. "Alva, is it – is it that you do not mean to marry the man?"
Alva laughed then, not very loudly, but clearly and sweetly. "No, Lassie, it isn't that. I am going to be married in the regular way and, besides, I will tell you in confidence that I fully believe that I have been married to the same man hundreds of times before, and shall be married to him countless times again. Does that help you?"
"Alva!"
"There! I told you that you wouldn't understand, and you don't."
"No, I certainly don't, when you talk like that."
"It's natural that you shouldn't, dear; but at the end of the week you will, perhaps. We'll hope so, any way. Oh, Lassie, how much we are both to live and learn in the next week."
Lassie turned her eyes to the eyes of the other.
"It's queer, Alva; you talk as if you were crazy, but I know you're not crazy, and yet I'm worried."
"You don't need to be worried, – "
"I'll try not to be." She raised her sweet eyes to her friend's face as she spoke, and her friend bent and kissed her. "Don't keep me waiting much longer," she pleaded.
They were passing through the little, tree-grown way which led out on the brow of the hill. All the wide, radiant wonder of that October morning unrolled before them there. For an instant Lassie stood entranced, forgetting all else; and then:
"Tell me now!" she cried.
"Let us sit down here," Alva said, pointing to a rough seat made out of a plank laid across two stumps. They sat down side by side.
"Alva, it seems as if I cannot wait another minute; I must know it all now. Tell me who he is, first; is it some one that I know?"
Alva's eyes rested on the wide radiance beyond.
"You know of him, dear," she replied quietly.
"Who is it?"
The woman laid her arm around the girl and drew her close and kissed her gently. Then she whispered two words in her ear.
With a scream, Lassie started to her feet. "Oh – no! – no! —no!"
Alva looked straight up at her where she stood there above her and smiled, steadily.
"No, no, – it can't be! I didn't hear right."
"Yes, you heard quite right."
The girl's hands shook violently; tears came fast pouring down her face. "But, Alva, he is – he can't – "
Tears filled the other's eyes, too, at that, and stole thickly out upon her cheeks. "I know, my dear child, but didn't I tell you how to me – to us – this life is only a small part of the whole?"
"Oh, but – but – oh, it's too horrible!" She sank down on the seat again and burst out sobbing.
"No, dear," Alva exclaimed, her voice suddenly firm, "not horrible, just that highest summit of life of which I spoke before – the point toward which I've lived, the point from which I shall live ever afterwards, – my point of infinite joy, – my all. For he is the man I love – have always loved – shall always love. Only, dear, don't you see? – he isn't a man as you understand the word; the love isn't even love as you understand love. It's all so different! So different!"
A long, keenly thrilling silence followed, broken only by the sound of the younger girl's repressed weeping.
It was one of those pauses during which men and
