born. Juliet was twenty years younger than her half-family, as she used to call them. She was very pretty and charming and they all loved and petted her and were very proud of her. When she fell in love with me, a poor young journalist, with nothing in the world but his pen and his ambition, there was a family earthquake. The Murray pride couldn’t tolerate the thing at all. I won’t rake it all up — but things were said I could never forget or forgive. Your mother married me, Emily — and the New Moon people would have nothing more to do with her. Can you believe that, in spite of it, she was never sorry for marrying me?”
Emily put up her hand and patted her father’s hollow cheek.
“Of course she wouldn’t be sorry. Of course she’d rather have you than all the Murrays of any kind of a moon.”
Father laughed a little — and there was just a note of triumph in his laugh.
“Yes, she seemed to feel that way about it. And we were so happy — oh, Emilykin, there never were two happier people in the world. You were the child of that happiness. I remember the night you were born in the little house in Charlottetown. It was in May and a west wind was blowing silvery clouds over the moon. There was a star or two here and there. In our tiny garden — everything we had was small except our love and our happiness — it was dark and blossomy. I walked up and down the path between the beds of violets your mother had planted — and prayed. The pale east was just beginning to glow like a rosy pearl when someone came and told me I had a little daughter. I went in — and your mother, white and weak, smiled just that dear, slow, wonderful smile I loved, and said, ‘We’ve — got — the — only — baby — of any importance — in — the — world, dear. Just — think — of that!’”
“I wish people could remember from the very moment they’re born,” said Emily. “It would be so very interesting.”
“I dare say we’d have a lot of uncomfortable memories,” said her father, laughing a little. “It can’t be very pleasant getting used to living — no pleasanter than getting used to stopping it. But you didn’t seem to find it hard, for you were a good wee kidlet, Emily. We had four more happy years, and then — do you remember the time your mother died, Emily?”
“I remember the funeral, Father — I remember it distinctly. You were standing in the middle of a room, holding me in your arms, and Mother was lying just before us in a long, black box. And you were crying — and I couldn’t think why — and I wondered why Mother looked so white and wouldn’t open her eyes. And I leaned down and touched her cheek — and oh, it was so cold. It made me shiver. And somebody in the room said, ‘Poor little thing!’ and I was frightened and put my face down on your shoulder.”
“Yes, I recall that. Your mother died very suddenly. I don’t think we’ll talk about it. The Murrays all came to her funeral. The Murrays have certain traditions and they live up to them very strictly. One of them is that nothing but candles shall be burned for light at New Moon — and another is that no quarrel must be carried past the grave. They came when she was dead — they would have come when she was ill if they had known, I will say that much for them. And they behaved very well — oh, very well indeed. They were not the Murrays of New Moon for nothing. Your Aunt Elizabeth wore her best black satin dress to the funeral. For any funeral but a Murray’s the second best one would have done; and they made no serious objection when I said your mother would be buried in the Starr plot in Charlottetown cemetery. They would have liked to take her back to the old Murray burying-ground in Blair Water — they had their own private burying-ground, you know — no indiscriminate graveyard for them. But your Uncle Wallace handsomely admitted that a woman should belong to her husband’s family in death as in life. And then they offered to take you and bring you up — to ‘give you your mother’s place.’ I refused to let them have you — then. Did I do right, Emily?”
“Yes — yes — yes!” whispered Emily, with a hug at every “yes.”
“I told Oliver Murray — it was he who spoke to me about you — that as long as I lived I would not be parted from my child. He said, ‘If you ever change your mind, let us know.’ But I did not change my mind — not even three years later when my doctor told me I must give up work. ‘If you don’t, I give you a year,’ he said, ‘if you do, and live out-of-doors all you can, I give you three — or possibly four.’ He was a good prophet. I came out here and we’ve had four lovely years together, haven’t we, small dear one?”
“Yes — oh, yes!”
“Those years and what I’ve taught you in them are the only legacy I can leave you, Emily. We’ve been living on a tiny income I have from a life interest that was left me in an old uncle’s estate — an uncle who died before I was married. The estate goes to a charity now, and this little house is only a rented one. From a worldly point of view I’ve certainly been a failure. But your mother’s people will care for you — I know that. The Murray pride will guarantee so much, if nothing else. And they can’t help loving you. Perhaps I should have sent for them before — perhaps I ought to do it yet. But I have pride of a kind, too — the Starrs are not entirely traditionless — and the Murrays said some very bitter things to me when I married your mother. Will I send to New Moon and ask them to come, Emily?”
“No!” said Emily, almost fiercely.
She did not want any one to come between her and Father for the few precious days left. The thought was horrible to her. It would be bad enough if they had to come — afterwards. But she would not mind anything much — then.
“We’ll stay together to the very end, then, little Emily-child. We won’t be parted for a minute. And I want you to be brave. You mustn’t be afraid of anything, Emily. Death isn’t terrible. The universe is full of love — and spring comes everywhere — and in death you open and shut a door. There are beautiful things on the other side of the door. I’ll find your mother there — I’ve doubted many things, but I’ve never doubted that. Sometimes I’ve been afraid that she would get so far ahead of me in the ways of eternity that I’d never catch up. But I feel now that she’s waiting for me. And we’ll wait for you — we won’t hurry — we’ll loiter and linger till you catch up with us.”
“I wish you — could take me right through the door with you,” whispered Emily.
“After a little while you won’t wish that. You have yet to learn how kind time is. And life has something for you — I feel it. Go forward to meet it fearlessly, dear. I know you don’t feel like that just now — but you will remember my words by and by.”
“I feel just now,” said Emily, who couldn’t bear to hide anything from Father, “that I don’t like God any more.”
Douglas Starr laughed — the laugh Emily liked best. It was such a dear laugh — she caught her breath over the dearness of it. She felt his arms tightening round her.
“Yes, you do, honey. You can’t help liking God. He is Love itself, you know. You mustn’t mix Him up with Ellen Greene’s God, of course.”
Emily didn’t know exactly what Father meant. But all at once she found that she wasn’t afraid any longer — and the bitterness had gone out of her sorrow, and the unbearable pain out of her heart. She felt as if love was all about her and around her, breathed out from some great, invisible, hovering Tenderness. One couldn’t be afraid or bitter where love was — and love was everywhere. Father was going through the door — no, he was going to lift a curtain — she liked that thought better, because a curtain wasn’t as hard and fast as a door — and he would slip into that world of which the flash had given her glimpses. He would be there in its beauty — never very far away from her. She could bear
