she decided to remain in the half-way house for a season. So settled, why, for a thousand reasons one must keep one's hand in.
There were men in plenty, from twenty year old Archie to the uncertain decades of Mr. Skee. Idly amusing herself, she questioned that gentleman indirectly as to his age, drawing from him astounding memories of the previous century.
When confronted with historic proof that the events he described were over a hundred years passed, he would apologize, admitting that he had no memory for dates. She owned one day, with gentle candor, to being thirty-three.
"That must seem quite old to a man like you, Mr. Skee. I feel very old sometimes!" She lifted large eyes to him, and drew her filmy scarf around her shoulders.
"Your memory must be worse than mine, ma'am," he replied, "and work the same way. You've sure got ten or twenty years added on superfluous! Now me!" He shook his head; "I don't remember when I was born at all. And losin' my folks so young, and the family Bible—I don't expect I ever shall. But I 'low I'm all of ninety-seven."
This being palpably impossible, and as the only local incidents he could recall in his youth were quite dateless adventures among the Indians, she gave it up. Why Mr. Skee should have interested her at all was difficult to say, unless it was the appeal to his uncertainty—he was at least a game fish, if not edible.
Of the women she met, Susie and Vivian were far the most attractive, wherefore Mrs. St. Cloud, with subtle sympathy and engaging frankness, fairly cast Mr. Saunders in Susie's arms, and vice versa, as opportunity occurred.
Morton she rather snubbed, treated him as a mere boy, told tales of his childhood that were in no way complimentary—so that he fled from her.
With Vivian she renewed her earlier influence to a great degree.
With some inquiry and more intuition she discovered what it was that had chilled the girl's affection for her.
"I don't wonder, my dear child," she said; "I never told you of that—I never speak of it to anyone.... It was one of the—" she shivered slightly—"darkest griefs of a very dark time.... He was a beautiful boy.... I never dreamed——"
The slow tears rose in her beautiful eyes till they shone like shimmering stars.
"Heaven send no such tragedy may ever come into your life, dear!"
She reached a tender hand to clasp the girl's. "I am so glad of your happiness!"
Vivian was silent. As a matter of fact, she was not happy enough to honestly accept sympathy. Mrs. St. Cloud mistook her attitude, or seemed to.
"I suppose you still blame me. Many people did. I often blame myself. One cannot be too careful. It's a terrible responsibility, Vivian—to have a man love you."
The girl's face grew even more somber. That was one thing which was troubling her.
"But your life is all before you," pursued the older woman. "Your dream has come true! How happy—how wonderfully happy you must be!"
"I am not, not really," said the girl. "At least——"
"I know—I know; I understand," Mrs. St. Cloud nodded with tender wisdom. "You are not sure. Is not that it?"
That was distinctly "it," and Vivian so agreed.
"There is no other man?"
"Not the shadow of one!" said the girl firmly. And as her questioner had studied the field and made up her mind to the same end, she believed her.
"Then you must not mind this sense of uncertainty. It always happens. It is part of the morning clouds of maidenhood, my dear—it vanishes with the sunrise!" And she smiled beatifically.
Then the girl unburdened herself of her perplexities. She could always express herself so easily to this sympathetic friend.
"There are so many things that I—dislike—about him," she said. "Habits of speech—of manners. He is not—not what I——"
She paused.
"Not all the Dream! Ah! My dear child, they never are! We are given these beautiful ideals to guard and guide us; but the real is never quite the same. But when a man's soul opens to you—when he loves—these small things vanish. They can be changed—you will change them."
"Yes—he says so," Vivian admitted. "He says that he knows that he is—unworthy—and has done wrong things. But so have I, for that matter."
Mrs. St. Cloud agreed with her. "I am glad you feel that, my dear. Men have their temptations—their vices—and we good women are apt to be hard on them. But have we no faults? Ah, my dear, I have seen good women—young girls, like yourself—ruin a man's whole life by—well, by heartlessness; by lack of understanding. Most young men do things they become ashamed of when they really love. And in the case of a motherless boy like this—lonely, away from his home, no good woman's influence about—what else could we expect? But you can make a new man of him. A glorious work!"
"That's what he says. I'm not so sure—" The girl hesitated.
"Not sure you can? Oh, my child, it is the most beautiful work on earth! To see from year to year a strong, noble character grow under your helping hand! To be the guiding star, the inspiration of a man's life. To live to hear him say:
"'Ah, who am I that God should bow
From heaven to choose a wife for me?
What have I done He should endow
My home with thee?'"
There was a silence.
Vivian's dark eyes shone with appreciation for the tender beauty of the lines, the lovely thought. Then she arose and walked nervously across the floor, returning presently.
"Mrs. St. Cloud——"
"Call me Adela, my dear."
"Adela—dear Adela—you—you have been married. I have no mother. Tell me, ought not there to be more—more love? I'm fond of Morton, of course, and I do want to help him—but surely, if I loved him—I should feel happier—more sure!"
"The first part of love is often very confusing, my dear. I'll tell you how it is: just because you are a woman grown and feel your responsibilities, especially here, where you have so many men friends, you keep Morton at a distance. Then the external sort of cousinly affection you have for him rather blinds you to other feelings. But I have not forgotten—and I'm sure you have not—the memory of that hot, sweet night so long ago; the world swimming in summer moonlight and syringa sweetness; the stillness everywhere—and your first kiss!"
Vivian started to her feet. She moved to the window and stood awhile; came back and kissed her friend warmly, and went away without another word.
The lady betook herself to her toilet, and spent some time on it, for there was one of Miss Peeder's classes that night.
Mrs. St. Cloud danced with many, but most with Mr. Dykeman; no woman in the room had her swimming grace of motion, and yet, with all the throng of partners about
