letter together. More than six months had passed since his last one.
It was not much of a letter. Vivian took it in her own hands and went through it again, carefully. The "Remember me to Viva – unless she's married," at the end did not seem at all satisfying. Still it might mean more than appeared – far more. Men were reticent and proud, she had read. It was perfectly possible that he might be concealing deep emotion under the open friendliness. He was in no condition to speak freely, to come back and claim her. He did not wish her to feel bound to him. She had discussed it with Mrs. St. Cloud, shrinkingly, tenderly, led on by tactful, delicate, questions, by the longing of her longing heart for expression and sympathy.
"A man who cannot marry must speak of marriage – it is not honorable," her friend had told her.
"Couldn't he – write to me – as a friend?"
And the low-voiced lady had explained with a little sigh that men thought little of friendship with women. "I have tried, all my life, to be a true and helpful friend to men, to such men as seemed worthy, and they so often – misunderstood."
The girl, sympathetic and admiring, thought hotly of how other people misunderstood this noble, lovely soul; how they even hinted that she "tried to attract men," a deadly charge in Bainville.
"No," Mrs. St. Cloud had told her, "he might love you better than all the world – yet not write to you – till he was ready to say 'come.' And, of course, he wouldn't say anything in his letters to his aunt."
So Vivian sat there, silent, weaving frail dreams out of "remember me to Viva – unless she's married." That last clause might mean much.
Dr. Bellair's voice sounded clear and insistent in the next room.
"She's trying to persuade Aunt Rella to go West!" said Susie. "Wouldn't it be funny if she did!"
In Susie's eyes her Aunt's age was as the age of mountains, and also her fixity. Since she could remember, Aunt Rella, always palely pretty and neat, like the delicate, faintly-colored Spring flowers of New England, had presided over the small white house, the small green garden and the large black and white school-room. In her vacation she sewed, keeping that quiet wardrobe of hers in exquisite order – and also making Susie's pretty dresses. To think of Aunt Orella actually "breaking up housekeeping," giving up her school, leaving Bainville, was like a vision of trees walking.
To Dr. Jane Bellair, forty-one, vigorous, successful, full of new plans and purposes, Miss Elder's life appeared as an arrested girlhood, stagnating unnecessarily in this quiet town, while all the world was open to her.
"I couldn't think of leaving Susie!" protested Miss Orella.
"Bring her along," said the doctor. "Best thing in the world for her!"
She rose and came to the door. The two girls make a pretty picture. Vivian's oval face, with its smooth Madonna curves under the encircling wreath of soft, dark plaits, and the long grace of her figure, delicately built, yet strong, beside the pink, plump little Susie, roguish and pretty, with the look that made everyone want to take care of her.
"Come in here, girls," said the doctor. "I want you to help me. You're young enough to be movable, I hope."
They cheerfully joined the controversy, but Miss Orella found small support in them.
"Why don't you do it, Auntie!" Susie thought it an excellent joke. "I suppose you could teach school in Denver as well as here. And you could Vote! Oh, Auntie – to think of your Voting!"
Miss Elder, too modestly feminine, too inherently conservative even to be an outspoken "Anti," fairly blushed at the idea.
"She's hesitating on your account," Dr. Bellair explained to the girl. "Wants to see you safely married! I tell her you'll have a thousandfold better opportunities in Colorado than you ever will here."
Vivian was grieved. She had heard enough of this getting married, and had expected Dr. Bellair to hold a different position.
"Surely, that's not the only thing to do," she protested.
"No, but it's a very important thing to do – and to do right. It's a woman's duty."
Vivian groaned in spirit. That again!
The doctor watched her understandingly.
"If women only did their duty in that line there wouldn't be so much unhappiness in the world," she said. "All you New England girls sit here and cut one another's throats. You can't possible marry, your boys go West, you overcrowd the labor market, lower wages, steadily drive the weakest sisters down till they – drop."
They heard the back door latch lift and close again, a quick, decided step – and Mrs. Pettigrew joined them.
Miss Elder greeted her cordially, and the old lady seated herself in the halo of the big lamp, as one well accustomed to the chair.
"Go right on," she said – and knitted briskly.
"Do take my side, Mrs. Pettigrew," Miss Orella implored her. "Jane Bellair is trying to pull me up by the roots and transplant me to Colorado."
"And she says I shall have a better chance to marry out there – and ought to do it!" said Susie, very solemnly. "And Vivian objects to being shown the path of duty."
Vivian smiled. Her quiet, rather sad face lit with sudden sparkling beauty when she smiled.
"Grandma knows I hate that – point of view," she said. "I think men and women ought to be friends, and not always be thinking about – that."
"I have some real good friends – boys, I mean," Susie agreed, looking so serious in her platonic boast that even Vivian was a little amused, and Dr. Bellair laughed outright.
"You won't have a 'friend' in that sense till you're fifty, Miss Susan – if you ever do. There can be, there are, real friendships between men and women, but most of that talk is – talk, sometimes worse.
"I knew a woman once, ever so long ago," the doctor continued musingly, clasping her hands behind her head, "a long way from here – in a college town – who talked about 'friends.' She was married. She was a 'good' woman – perfectly 'good' woman. Her husband was not a very good man, I've heard, and strangely impatient of her virtues. She had a string of boys – college boys – always at her heels. Quite too young and too charming she was for this friendship game. She said that such a friendship was 'an ennobling influence' for the boys. She called them her 'acolytes.' Lots of them were fairly mad about her – one young chap was so desperate over it that he shot himself."
There was a pained silence.
"I don't see what this has to do with going to Colorado," said Mrs. Pettigrew, looking from one to the other with a keen, observing eye. "What's your plan, Dr. Bellair?"
"Why, I'm trying to persuade my old friend here to leave this place, change her occupation, come out to Colorado with me, and grow up. She's a case of arrested development."
"She wants me to keep boarders!" Miss Elder plaintively protested to Mrs. Pettigrew.
That lady was not impressed.
"It's quite a different matter out there, Mrs. Pettigrew," the doctor explained. "'Keeping boarders' in this country goes to the tune of 'Come Ye Disconsolate!' It's a doubtful refuge for women who are widows or would be better off if they were. Where I live it's a sure thing if well managed – it's
