Front matter (continued 3)

"Haller," called Glen, "I'd like to climb White Face to-morrow; it's such clear weather."

"'Tis clear," replied Haller. "Liable to have snow on White Face."

"Are you going to put me in your book?" asked Indiana. "Am I the type of American woman you will describe?"

"I am not going to put you in my book," answered Lord Canning. "I am going to put you—well, never mind. You are not the type—you are a type."

"That's so," assented Indiana. "The states are too large for any one distinctive type of woman. We all have that 'must-be-up-and-doing' kind of spirit. You call it 'nervous activity.' The Southern girl is neutrally active; the Eastern girl aggressively active."

"The Western girl—" suggested Lord Canning.

"Judge for yourself." She stood before him, her hands clasped behind her. "Physically light weight, but strong. I can climb a tree, vault a fence, ride a horse bareback, straddle and side-saddle. Mentally light-weight, but bright, with an enormous faculty for devouring literature, good, bad and indifferent. I love good music, and the impressionist school of painting. Character undeveloped; politically, an expansionist. I believe in the imperialistic policy, in annexation—stretching out and grabbing everything I can get."

"Bravo! Charming!" exclaimed Lord Canning, clapping his hands. "You are most interesting."

"As a study—or—or—a woman."

"Both," said Lord Canning. "When I cease to study your imperfections, I commence to love them." He bent over her, looking into her eyes. Glen struck a discord on the mandolin.

"I suggest that we start," interrupted Mrs. Bunker.

Lord Canning stood seriously gazing into the fire in the hall, while the ladies donned their wraps. His face brightened when he saw Indiana on the little balcony behind the Persian rug. She had put on a long white circular. The hood, edged with swansdown, made a pretty frame for her little flushed face. Her eyes, with their dilating pupils, looked dark under the yellow hair.

"Come down, little snow maiden! Or, are you afraid you will melt away in the heat of the fire?"

He met her at the foot of the stairs, and took her hand in a tender pressure. Mrs. Bunker coughed slightly behind them, and Indiana ran quickly out on the balcony, leaving Lord Canning under the amused fire of Mrs. Bunker's bright eyes. She shook her finger at him, and would have followed Indiana, but Lord Canning did not wish to be taken so lightly.

"Mrs. Bunker," he said in a low, intense voice, grasping the balustrade, "one moment, if you please. It may not be considered anything in America when a man of my age is seen holding the hand of such a very young girl, but, I am not a believer in light sentiment—flirting, perhaps, would be the term. I love your granddaughter!"

"It's easy enough to see that," laughed Mrs. Bunker. It was always amusing to her when people took themselves so seriously. "You have my good wishes. I have always thought very highly of you."

She held out her hand, which he pressed gratefully in his. "Thank you, Mrs. Bunker. Have you any idea if—if she cares for me?"

"The little minx is too smart for me," answered Mrs. Bunker.

"She is so non-committal," said Lord Canning. "I know she esteems me and all that; at times, I have fancied that I even interest her. But as to—" he gazed gloomily into the fire. "Well, it will be necessary for me to clinch things very soon, time is passing with dangerous rapidity—but still passing. Mrs. Bunker, when I met you in Cannes over a year ago, I did not know what a great influence you were fated to throw on my life. If she loves me, I will never forget that it is through you—"

"Don't thank me—yet," said Mrs. Bunker, shrewdly. "Wait until you're married a year."

"Oh, I have no fears on that score," asserted Lord Canning, with a very self-confident air.

"You don't know Indiana. If you attempted to cross her, she'd tear your hair out!"

"Goodness gracious!" exclaimed Lord Canning, laughing heartily. "Don't think you can frighten me by a little thing like that!"

"If I thought so," reflected Mrs. Bunker, "I wouldn't have told you, no matter how true it might be. Oh, nothing would stop you now, Lord Canning!"

"Nothing! I have lived a very matter-of-fact life—never very miserable, or the other extreme. I have had great satisfaction in my work. Now it's time I snatched a little happiness."

"Indeed it is," said Mrs. Bunker, in a soothing voice. Men, to her, were like big children—to be humored.

They had moved gradually toward the fire. "These logs," continued Lord Canning, "are a magnet towards which my eyes have been drawn every night since I came. If you knew what I see in them—such a sweet domestic picture, a vision of true happiness!"

"Well, don't depend too much on Indiana's domesticity," said Mrs. Bunker.

"We generally gauge a daughter by her mother, in England," stated Lord Canning.

"Well, it's different over here. The young generation are so precocious—so far ahead of the mothers."

"I do not call it an advance. The daughters would do well to copy their mothers in their allegiance to the home. I hope, if Indiana does me the honor to consent—"

"Well, you can have that out with her. She may be a model of domesticity, but you never know how a girl's going to develop. You can't be sure of everything"—she laughed mockingly—"that's the risk of marriage."

"I am staking everything on this one card—marriage," said Lord Canning.

"Why will you men play so high?" queried Mrs. Bunker, laughing again, as she swept out on the balcony.

"Why?" echoed Lord Canning, looking into the fire. His dark eyes smiled at what he saw there—the picture he had described in the glowing logs, had been his answer. "Yes, it is time I snatched a little happiness—how little, after all! The rest of my natural life seems short enough to love her in."

"We're going, Lord Canning," called Mrs. Bunker.

He hurried out, offering his arm to Indiana, as the procession followed Haller down to the boat-house. The lake by moonlight was a scene of such mysterious beauty that no one felt inclined to talk. Lord Canning was somewhat disposed to question the reality of his surroundings. He was drifting down a silvery sea of enchantment, Indiana's white-robed form at his side. Oblivious of criticism, he scarcely took his eyes from her young face, etherealized in the moonlight. Glen watched his loverlike attitude, with growing anger. To the various camps along the lake, the illuminated launch, passing with the faint strains of the mandolin, presented quite a fairy-like spectacle. Later, driving through the country, they were all talkative and lively, regaling the night with choruses, Glen playing and singing with a gayety he was far from feeling. Stillwater, who drove, complied, unhesitatingly, to a request for the old road. Lord Canning sat silent and spellbound the entire way, watching the stream winding before him—touched with tremulous waves of silver; the little islands dreaming in a moonlit haze.

William had been sent over to prepare, early in the afternoon. When the party arrived, the falls were illuminated by colored lanterns, decorating the rustic bridges, and hanging from the trees. They added a fantastic beauty to the natural wildness of the spot.

"I'm sure I am dreaming," said Lord Canning, as he stood alone with Indiana on one of the rustic bridges, listening to the roar of the waters and watching the many-colored lights trembling on the moonlit falls. "Studying late into the night, I fell asleep in my library at home. Jennings will come in soon and poke the fire, and I shall awake—in England!"

At twelve they sat down to a large supper-table. Kitty, Flash, and the two guides were in attendance. Lord Canning related some interesting adventures, and Stillwater taxed his memory for humorous experiences, which met with the hearty appreciation of his guests, who were very susceptible to the dry wit of the American. Glen complied whenever he was asked to sing, between the stories, but otherwise he was distinctly out of tune with the prevailing high spirits. He had been wrought up to the highest pitch of jealousy, by the absence of Lord Canning and Indiana from the rest, before supper. The entire evening appealed to him more as a nightmare than a festivity.

"Friends," began Stillwater, in response to a toast from Lord Canning, "I'm in the best of health and spirits. My family are all around me"—he rested his hand on his wife's head—"I hope to keep them so, for many a long day. We can't reckon on the future, but to-night I'm a happy man!" He kissed his wife, whose eyes had filled with a quick rush of tears.

Indiana jumped up and threw herself upon his breast, with a very sure premonition that she would soon leave him.

"Our host again!" proposed Lord Stafford.

His nephew drank the toast, feeling a sense of guilt that he was destined so shortly to ruffle the calm sea of Stillwater's domestic horizon.

"My distinguished guests have announced their intention of returning to England"—holding Indiana against his breast. "May they find their dear ones well and happy, and Godspeed to them!"

"Godspeed to them!" echoed Glen. "And a quick leave-taking!" he thought grimly.

Mrs. Bunker's happy philosophy was colored for the moment with a tinge of pessimism. "What a blind game it is," she whispered to Lord Canning. "He may be wishing 'Godspeed' to the baby I laid in his arms. Look at Indiana, she hasn't raised her head."

"Well, Indiana," said Stillwater, "aren't you going to drink 'Godspeed' to them?" He held the glass to her lips, raising her head from his breast. Their eyes were all upon her,—Lord Canning's tenderly anxious, his uncle's laughing, Mrs. Bunker's significant, and Glen's suspicious and jealous.

"Godspeed to them!" she repeated, gaily raising her glass.

When they finally arose from supper, Glen immediately disappeared. "I must get away from that awful white light," he thought, walking restlessly through the dark woods. "It's beating on my brain and driving me mad." His soul foreboded very truly that Indiana was lost to him. The soul is our Cassandra. It mourns and prophecies, while the heart is forever holding a carnival. A young girl decking herself with flowers for a fete. There is a shrouded form behind her in the mirror. It whispers, "Those flowers are blossoms of death. The fete for which you are robing, is a funeral." But, unhearing, unseeing, thinking of lovers and dancing, she decks herself in the mirror, a song on her lips.

Scarcely knowing where his feet were leading him, he found himself on the bridge directly over the falls. "She never notices me—I don't exist for her!" He looked down into the falls. "Living's only a fever after all—a mad fever of longing and jealousy. I'd gladly end it, down there—if it wasn't for the folks. Ambition! glory! I'd fling them all to the winds for the choice of pressing her little yellow head to my heart, just once, to still this horrible throbbing! If I had been brought home wounded and dying, she'd have sobbed beside me, and I'd have comforted her in my weak arms. Then she might have said, 'I love you, Glen dear!' just to make me happy—before the end. I would have fallen peacefully asleep then, blessing her. A happy death, to have died for my country, holding her to my breast, as my life bled away. Better than this—this fever called 'living'."

A hand was laid on his shoulder. "We're going home, my boy."

"Oh, I'm sorry"—he pressed his hand to his forehead—"I'm sorry that you were obliged to look for me."

Stillwater scrutinized Glen's set, white face. "The Englishmen are going. Things will come your way—soon."

"They'll never come my way," sighed Glen, "except, perhaps, when I've ceased to care."

"Nonsense!"

"It seems to me that nothing is worth what I've been suffering—not even Indiana."

"She isn't," assured Stillwater, unhesitatingly, delighted at this conclusion. "Turn over a new leaf. Show her you're indifferent. She'll think all the more of you."

Lord Stafford was patting the ponies, while Haller arranged the harness.

"If you'll be kind enough to jump in, Lord Stafford," cried Mrs. Bunker, "we may reach home in time for breakfast! Come now, Haller, you've been fumbling long enough with that harness!"

Haller grinned at Lord Stafford. "That woman's full of life," he remarked, "I admire her."

"The devil you do!" exclaimed Lord Stafford.

As they started they all sung "On the Banks of the Wabash."

The moon was fading when they embarked on 'The Indiana.'

"The lake presents an unearthly appearance in this silver twilight," remarked Lord Canning. "It is vanishing quickly. There's still a parting gleam touching the dark pines here and there—lingering like the last caress of a dying hand. Everything is becoming vague. The world is fading away from us. How fascinating—these last few moments before the dawn. Ah, it is breaking! That suggestion of dark shore—this pale light on the black lake. Why, we are on the River Styx. Haller doesn't look unlike Charon. I can see you dimly, Miss Stillwater—a little ghost in your white cloak. We are all ghosts." He lowered his voice. "I am positive that Mr. Masters sitting there, with his mandolin, could not present a more tragic figure if his eternal punishment were to play for the amusement of all the shades crossing to Hades!"

Indiana laughed. Glen bit his lips savagely. It sounded to him like the mocking laugh he had heard in his dreams, on the farm in the West, that miserable week when he had exiled himself.

The morning mists floated above them, growing denser. The clouds reflecting in the glassy lake, exposed only a fringe of red foliage. Gradually the mists were tinged with a faint opaline glow, deepening gradually. The sun rose as they neared Camp Indiana.

CHAPTER XII.

Leading to the Altar.

Glen did not renounce his original intention of climbing White Face mountains. He slept for two hours, breakfasted, and started for White Face trail at ten o'clock. There was no one stirring at the camp. When he returned it was four in the afternoon. He found Indiana lying in the hammock on the balcony, Lord Canning, seated beside her, reading poetry aloud.

Glen threw himself into a chair. "I'm pretty well used up!"

"I should think so," said Indiana, "climbing White Face after being up all night! I'll order some tea for you, and then you'd better go to bed."

She sprang from the hammock and disappeared, returning again in a moment.

"Thank you, Indiana. I'm glad I went. It was magnificent! The view as clear as possible, and snow on the summit!"

"I thought we might see you and Haller from the lake, but I couldn't get Lord Canning away from the camp to-day. He was so lazy."

Lord Canning smiled. He had his own reasons for staying home, having resolved not to let the day pass without speaking to his host of the subject of Indiana. So far there had been no opportunity. The family did not appear until lunch-time, and ever since, Stillwater had been closeted, writing business letters.

Though excessively fatigued, Glen felt immeasurably better for climbing White Face. The physical tax had cleared his brain. He had been exhilarated by the cold, rare air on the summit. He drank his tea with a pleasurable sense of lassitude, and, his eyes fixed on Indiana swinging in the hammock, replied rather absently to Lord Canning's questions regarding the ascent.

Lord Canning rose, closing his Tennyson. "I think I'll stroll down to the lake, Miss Stillwater, if you don't mind." He smiled at Glen, with a feeling of generosity.

Indiana looked after him thoughtfully as he strolled down through the trees.

"He's a thorough gentleman—so unobtrusive. He never asks prying questions—and he's never in the way."

"Too slow for me," replied Glen, watching her narrowly. "But I suppose you must have someone to flirt with."

Indiana swung slowly. "Perhaps—I'm in earnest—this time!"

Glen rose and grasped her wrist tightly. "Don't say that, Indy! While you're single I shall never give up hope. Now, what's in the way? I'm not your inferior in education. Do you know any handsomer fellow than I?"—with a grim affectation of humor. "If it's for money—I have all you'll ever want."

"I must marry a man of the world. I want to live in the world. We're both undeveloped—I'm not a woman yet, nor you a man."

"I don't consider I'm not a man," said Glen scornfully, "until I have conquered no end of women, and have their broken hearts for trophies, like an Indian with a string of scalps. I love one woman, and if she won't have me—well, I'll not give up until I see her tied pretty tightly to another man."

"I'm not worth it, Glen." She caught his arm, gazing earnestly up into his face, "I'm not worth all your devotion."

"I know you have faults enough, but, God help me, I love you all the better for them."

"Everybody loves my faults," said Indiana, impatiently. "That's the trouble with me. If I could only find some one who would hate them and try to cure them."

"I couldn't be harsh to you, Indy. If you killed me, I'd die blessing you. You nearly did for me once—"

"What!"

"Oh, it wasn't your fault—you were too young to know better."

Indiana sprang from the hammock. "Glen, what wasn't my fault?" she demanded, fiercely. "What did I do? You shall tell me!"

"All right. But don't get in a temper. I swore I'd never throw it up to you."

"Don't tease me, Glen," said Indiana, imploringly, "tell me—quickly."

Glen pushed his hair back from his right temple. "Do you see that?"

"Yes," uttered Indiana, in a frightened voice, "a deep, white scar."

"You did that." She recoiled, looking at it in horror. "You threw a pair of scissors at me—in one of your tantrums."

"Oh, no, no, no!"

"You were too young to remember, and they took you away so that the sight of the blood shouldn't frighten you."

"Oh, Glen!" cried Indiana, "how could I? And you're always so good—you never even hated me for it. Oh, Glen!" She took his head in her hands and kissed the scar impulsively. "Forgive me—forgive me!"

"Indiana, is there a chance for me?"

"No."

"You're not going to marry that Englishman?" he said, fiercely.

"He hasn't asked me."

"Would you?"

"I don't know, Glen. Promise me you won't say anything to him about that," pointing to the scar.

"I've never thought of it myself," said Glen, sadly, "since then. I'm sorry I told you if—"

"Thank you for telling me. I'm glad I know. It hurts me, though—right here." She put her hand to her heart.

"Indiana!"

"Now I'm blue, but I'll get over it. To think I could hurt you, or anybody, like that."

"Oh, Indy, don't think about it. This scar is healed—long ago. You've hurt me here, far worse than that." He took her hand and pressed it to his heart. "There's a wound here it'll take many a long day to heal."

"Oh, Glen! Oh, Glen!" she moaned, piteously, trying to wrest her hand away. But he held it tightly over his heart.

"I don't know what you want—I don't believe you know yourself—I don't believe you realize what you're doing—you're too young to know. You're throwing away a rare, pure love, Indiana, as though it were a soiled ribbon. I'm not a man of the world, but I know what that means in life—you don't. It's all that counts in the long run. I don't say another man couldn't love you, but no one will ever love you better—remember that, won't you? And that mine is not a love which has sprung up suddenly—it has taken deep roots in my life."

"It's horrible to think I could hurt anyone like that," repeated Indiana, mechanically, looking at the scar on his forehead.

"That's the least. Think of the wound here," he repeated. "You could heal it, Indiana." He opened his arms. He might have won her by his very insistence, if it were not that the idea of another—a different life from what she had known—had shed its glamour upon her, the glamour of the new and strange. She would not trust herself to look at his dark, quivering face, but turned away and mounted the stairs, slowly, to her room, seeing him very clearly as she went, standing with his arms extended.

Later, Mrs. Stillwater found Glen sitting alone on the balcony, looking vacantly on the lake. He did not notice her, until she went up to him, putting her arm about his neck.

"What's the matter, Glen?"

"Indy won't have me—"

"You've asked her, then?"

Glen nodded.

"I'm so sorry, so sorry." She smoothed his hair gently. "I've always hoped it would be—some day."

"I haven't given—up—hope—yet," he said, doggedly.

She kept smoothing his hair, until Lord Canning joined them. Then Glen rose abruptly and went up to his room.

"Our young hero seems depressed," said Lord Canning, quietly.

"It's about Indiana," replied Mrs. Stillwater, very much distressed.

"He's a fine fellow, but, if you'll pardon me for saying so, Mrs. Stillwater, he's not the right husband for your daughter."

"He understands her better than a stranger would. He'd get along with her, I'm sure."

"Is it so difficult to get along with her?" enquired Lord Canning.

"Oh, I didn't mean that," replied Mrs. Stillwater, quickly. "There's no one more lovable and easy, if she's studied."

"What do you think of me as a husband for your daughter?" said Lord Canning, quietly.

"Lord Canning, you're not in earnest?"

"Why not? I should like to take my place in the matrimonial competition, if you have no objection."

She looked at him, standing there with such apparent composure. "What objection could I have to a man like you? But, I'm not the one to be consulted. Whatever Indy decides, I must be satisfied with. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"

"Mrs. Stillwater, the idea is evidently disagreeable to you?"

"Oh no, not at all. But Indiana's so young, and you live so far away—and she is so unfit to be alone—without us. But don't consider me—I have nothing whatever to say."

"I had a pressing correspondence to-day, Lord Canning," said Stillwater, emerging upon the balcony. His wife put her hand on his shoulder.

"Father! Father!"

"Well, mother, what is it?"

"Lord Canning wants to marry Indy?"

"Does he?" asked Stillwater, composedly. "Too bad—too bad."

His wife sighed heavily, and was on the point of leaving them, when Lord Canning took her hand, looking sympathetically into her eyes. "Why not stay and help me out?"

"Oh, I really must go—Indy's waiting for me. I never let anyone do anything for her. I always lay out her dresses, and brush her hair, and wait on her. She gets cross if I don't—and I love to do it."

"You don't approve of me, Mrs. Stillwater?"

"I do," she answered, tremulously. "I like you very much—you're such a nice, modest man for your position. Will you—" she hesitated, he still held her hand, looking inquiringly into her eyes, "will you wait a while and think it over before you ask Indy?"

"I have waited and thought it over well," replied Lord Canning, in a very decided tone. "I know this is very unusual, but, for the life of me, I couldn't ask a young woman to marry me until I was sure I would be acceptable to her parents."

"You are, you are," assured Mrs. Stillwater, quickly, "but it will be a great trial to lose her—that's what I was thinking of—only that." The tears rushed to her eyes. She turned and mounted the stairs, hastily.

"Mother is naturally upset when she thinks of Indy getting married," said Stillwater, who had been gravely listening.

"Naturally," agreed Lord Canning. "Suppose we walk down to the lake," he added, with an Englishman's dislike of being overheard.

"Marrying young runs in our family," remarked Stillwater, as they descended the steps. "My wife was sixteen, when she married, and grandma only fifteen. There's always somebody turning up, wanting to marry Indiana. But she's never been serious about anyone, I'm happy to say."

Lord Canning looked meditatively upon the ground, pushing, with the tip of his shoe, the thick layer of pine needles. Finally he looked up, smiling. "If I could make her serious about me, would you object?"

"Why should I?" asked Stillwater, dryly. "I don't have to live with you."

"Oh, no," replied Lord Canning, accepting the remark in a serious sense, "there's no possible necessity for it." Stillwater gave an involuntary chuckle, and, seating himself on a rustic bench built between two trees, offered his would-be son-in-law a cigar. "I ought to feel very much honored, Lord Canning, but I haven't reached that stage of imperialism, although my mother-in-law is a fiend on that subject. American women generally are. They're natural imperialists. They head a despotic monarchy at home." He laughed heartily, while his guest surveyed him gravely, lighting his cigar.

"Mr. Stillwater, I hope you do not consider my title against me?"

"Oh, not at all, not at all," smoking, in a very comfortable position. "It might help you with Indiana. It would be a new fad for her. You know we all have our fads. It's a good thing for us, too. Personally I like you. I like you very much. But—er—" he hesitated, studying the lake. There was plainly something on his mind which he considered should be said. Finally he rose, placing his hand kindly on Lord Canning's shoulder. "I want to give you a quiet piece of advice, and if you don't take it I want you to consider it as never having been said—will you?"

"I will, sir," said Lord Canning, gravely.

"Don't marry my daughter!"

"Why?"

"It'll never pan out. Your ways are not her ways; her thoughts and your thoughts are as far apart as—as if she spoke Chinese and you Pennsylvania Dutch."

"Mr. Stillwater, I am not easily frightened. The more difficulties I encounter, the more determined I am to win."

"Now, don't misunderstand me," added Stillwater, quickly. "My daughter's no worse than any other man's daughter—women, as women, are all all alike. But we understand and know how to get along with them. I married very young, and I continued to live with my wife, my mother-in-law, and my daughter, all different dispositions, without quarrelling."

"Yes, I have observed and admired the equilibrium of your household. It would be very valuable to me to know how you manage it. Will you let me into the secret, Mr. Stillwater?"

"Ha, ha, ha! Easy enough—I give in!"

"You give in?" Lord Canning asked, incredulously.

"Every time," replied his host, proudly. "I never stand out against them, so they can't quarrel with me—and when they quarrel between themselves, I agree with them all—separately." He looked at his guest with a self-congratulatory expression.

"I'm afraid I could not adopt that method," he said quietly, flicking the ashes from his cigar.

"There," Stillwater exclaimed, triumphantly, "I told you it wouldn't do!" They heard Mrs. Bunker laughing in the woods with Lord Stafford, and presently she came through the trees, in her scarlet cape, bare-headed, followed by her guest carrying a wicker basket, brimful of balsam sprigs.

"We've been balsaming," she said.

"I beg pardon," remarked Lord Canning.

"Balsaming," she repeated. "That's what they call it here—picking balsam." She knocked his forehead lightly with her forefinger. "See it now—or shall I get a hammer?"

He laughed. "My stupidity must try your patience at times, Mrs. Bunker."

"I wanted some to fill the pillow I am making for Lord Stafford to take to England—when he goes." Lord Stafford offered her his arm, and, laughing, they continued their way to the camp.

"Then you haven't much faith in our speedy departure—although you drank the toast last night, Mrs. Bunker?"

"Not in yours—your nephew's, yes. But I don't imagine you'll go with him."

"Probably not, Mrs. Bunker. Under certain circumstances, I might consider it advisable to prolong my trip. And I must say the prospect of remaining in America is delightful to me—most delightful."

"The fact is, Lord Canning," continued Stillwater, "we spoil our children. We know it, but we can't help it. The girls, mind you—the boys are easy enough thrown on the world—but the girls," he smiled fondly, "the pretty, little, delicate girls—how can you help spoiling them? You should have seen Indy—" Lord Canning's face assumed an expression of deep interest. "A doll—you could have put her in a quart pitcher. She'd roll up her little sleeves, and fight and sass me—we'd roar at her. As she grew up, it grew with her, and now when she gets in a temper, we all scatter till she's over it. And then she creeps under your coat, like a little, white mouse, and loves you so, with her pretty hands and her soft face. Now, what can a man do?"

Lord Canning regarded his host reflectively. "You begin early to make a rough road for the girl's future husband, don't you?"

"Oh, no! Our people understand that every man is under the thumb of his wife, and is proud of it."

This assertion sounded astounding to the listener. Before, however, he could grasp its full value, he caught sight of Indiana's white dress among the pines. As he watched her coming toward them, her head making a light advancing spot among the dark trees, Stillwater's friendly warning faded from his mind as completely as though it had never been given.

"It all rests with her now," he thought.

"Why so serious?" said Indiana. "Let me into this secret discussion. If it's not snow and ice, and the North Pole, I know more about it than Lord Canning—and if it's not farming, I know more about it than pa."

"I guess I'll let you fight it out with Indiana," remarked Stillwater, dryly. He looked at her, with a sigh, then climbed slowly up to the camp.

"We were discussing many things," said Lord Canning, bashfully. "Marriage; the training of children—"

"Marriage—with pa?" replied Indiana, with a laugh. "He's absolutely ignorant on the subject."

"Remarkable," said Lord Canning, "considering he's seventeen years married."

"Oh, that was only a boy-and-girl affair. In those days it was a farm, a wife to do the housework—and they always lived happily."

"I wish it were as simple a matter with you as with your mother," ventured Lord Canning.

"I'm different from mother. If I were not, you would not—"

"What?" asked Lord Canning.

"Oh, nothing," stooping to pick up a sprig of balsam, which had fallen from Lord Stafford's basket.

"Let us follow that little trail down there beside the lake," suggested Lord Canning, "do you mind?"

The day had been sunless. The evening was still and gray, the air soft and balmy, without a tinge of frost. Through the trees that fringed the trail, they caught glimpses of the glassy lake mirroring the gray floating clouds, and great masses of autumn color, with sometimes the intervening dark shadow of a group of pines.

"Men to you are like a large correspondence, which is read carelessly, 'answered' scribbled on the envelopes, then piled into pigeon holes—forgotten."

"I always throw old letters away," said Indiana, sweetly. "I never accumulate rubbish."

"Oh!" said Lord Canning. He walked beside her for a little while, thinking deeply. "How silent it is here," he remarked, finally. "This soft carpet of pine needles muffles every footstep. It seems sacrilege almost, to speak. This trail seems to me like a dim, narrow aisle of a church, leading to the altar." He looked upward at the glimpse of gray sky. "Indiana, I am a very serious man. I accept life as worth living only with serious aims." They emerged upon a small open space in the woods, dimly lit, with a Turkish carpet of many-colored leaves. He drew Indiana down upon a fallen tree, covered with silvery patches of gray-green moss. "My ideal of a wife has been an intellectual woman of my own world and standing. But your little hands have bowled over, like a set of ninepins, all my long cherished traditions and ideas. You have taken possession of me, in a way which terrifies me. I am miserable away from you. I am miserable with you. I am restless, sleepless—you flit before me like a tantalizing will-o'-the-wisp, whose light draws, maddens me. My pen is idle, my mail lies upon the table—unanswered. Tell me, have I a chance with you—or let me go. Let me put the ocean between us, for self-preservation."

"I don't wish you to think I trifle with marriage because I have refused several offers," said Indiana, seriously. "It's not waywardness or frivolity."

"Indiana!"

"You admit, in your feeling for me, reason has no place. And that your ideal of a wife is something entirely different from myself."

"Yes," said Lord Canning. "Reason has no place. It is love—love alone."

"I want you to know me as I really am, then—if you are willing to take the chances—"

"Willing!" He raised her hand to his lips.

"I am very much spoiled," Indiana continued.

"You have all the imperfections which make you charming to a lover, you will have all the virtues which will make you—divine to your husband."

"I must have my own way—even when I'm wrong. I'm fond of change, nothing pleases me long. I'm quick tempered, spiteful—but I'm always sorry for it, after—always."

"Sweetheart, I have watched you closely. I have seen glimpses of splendid feeling and heart in you, that have become choked by indulgence. Other conditions will develop the good that is in you—I am quite confident of it."

She looked through the trees at the gray lake. "I could be different—it is in me—but—somehow—"

He watched her face, caressing her hand. "You will love my mother, dear. She is a type of English womanhood. She is not strong, and has lived a retired life for many years. Our house may be quiet for you—at first."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I'll make it lively enough."

"Darling!" He tried to draw her into his arms, but she resisted him.

"Wait."

"What more, pretty penitent?"

"Yes. I want you to promise me that when I'm mad and want to do inconsistent things, and have my own way—when it's not good for me—I want you to promise me, no matter how much you love me—that you won't give in."

He laughed at her earnest little face. "I'm afraid I shall—I feel now as if I shall let you do anything, I love you so."

"Then I won't marry you. I've tried to control myself, but I can't, because everybody's so afraid of me. It makes me much worse. You're the first man I've ever taken seriously."

"Do you love me, Indiana?"

"No. I'm tired of the model farm—I'm tired of Grandma Chazy—I'm tired of Washington and New York, and I want to go to England." His expression sank at this frank avowal, only to change again at her next words. "I—I feel that marriage to me must mean the changing of every condition—or—" she looked imploringly into his anxious eyes, "I won't make a success of my life—and I want to be something more than I am—something better." She added quickly, "And, I wouldn't marry you, if I did not think I could love you—some day."

"I believe in the love which comes after marriage," he said firmly. "Given a fairly matched pair, the man the stronger, and there's no danger. I'm sure I shall make you love me."

"And you promise—"

"I promise, no matter how much I suffer, I won't give in." He clasped her into his arms, and kissed her passionately. A sudden wave of color surged over her face, and she drew herself away, with downcast eyes. He watched her anxiously, holding her hand. Then he persuaded her to sit down beside him on the moss-grown trunk. "A little sleeping soul has been given my into my care," he thought, smoothing her hair gently. "I must cherish it until it wakes. After waiting—after infinite patience—her love, when given, will be all the sweeter. I shall prize it more than if it had been easily won. We must wait for the most precious things in life. That is the supreme lesson to learn—how to wait—so we shall be worthy of life's golden gift, when it comes. It must come—the very power of my own love for her—the very force of my will, must bring it. Life owes it to me—her love." He touched his lips to her hair.

"Now, let's go and tell the folks," said Indiana.

CHAPTER XIII.

England.

"Jennings!"

"Yes, yer leddyship!"

"I thought I heard carriage wheels."

"Not yet, yer leddyship."

Lady Canning sighed, and Jennings sank stiffly on his knees and poked the fire, as he had done innumerable times within the hour.

"Her leddyship will be ill," he mumbled to himself over the fire. "It's a terrible strain for her leddyship."

"Jennings!"

"Yes, yer leddyship."

"Look again! I thought I heard them—this time."

Jennings rose with difficulty, pushed aside the heavy draperies that screened the library windows, and peered through the fog.

"Not yet—yer leddyship." He adjusted the curtains carefully with his shaking fingers. "Will I bring the tea, yer leddyship?"

"No, Jennings, I will have tea with my son and his young wife."

"His lordship may not arrive for sometime—yer leddyship may be faint."

"Yes, but nevertheless, I am firmly resolved to wait, Jennings." She closed her eyes with an expression of resignation.

"Very well, yer leddyship," said Jennings, in a heart-broken voice. He left the room noiselessly.

Lady Canning sat motionless in her large arm-chair near the fire. Approaching seventy years of age, there were still remnants of beauty in those fine, delicately cut features, slightly pinched through illness. Her calm, impassive face seemed to have outlived every stage of emotion, or lived through the emotional stage, without having experienced the emotions. For twenty years since the death of her husband she had maintained the strictest seclusion. A cobweb of ivory-tinted lace rested on her white, carefully dressed hair, and a fichu of the same was drawn over her attenuated shoulders.

The room in which she sat was a proper frame for her personality. It was filled with objects, some of rare value, that had mellowed with age. The years had taken from everything its element of aggressiveness. The tapestries, the paintings, the books, the furniture, blended into harmony of soft and faded hues.

Lady Canning suffered considerable excitement at the prospect of seeing her only son once more, after an absence of ten months, not to speak of a certain anxiety regarding her daughter-in-law. Thurston had written, "I will not describe Indiana. I wish you to form your own impressions."

"My dear son had no idea I would suffer any suspense regarding his wife," she reflected, "otherwise he would have written me every particular. He doubtless thought I would have every confidence in his judgment. And my fears have probably not the slightest foundation. It seems impossible that my son should select a woman for his wife who would be unfitted for the position. And yet, it appears strange he should have gone so far away from home to choose a daughter for me. It is quite natural I should have preferred him to marry a woman in his own sphere, from another old, conservative English family. I should have felt surer, then, that there would have been no after-complications. There are so few left of the real conservative families. The watchword of the others is 'Progress.' They grasp, all too quickly, every new idea that claims to be an improvement on the old. But we are more careful—we cling to our traditions—our old ideals of life. There are none better. There is Lady Isabel Waring—still unmarried, not a beauty—but great caste—great caste. She would have been devoted to me." Lady Canning sighed and opened her eyes.

Jennings was lighting the candles in the tall, many-branching candelabras on the mantel. The Canning mansion, in common with other old London homes, had been fitted up with every modern improvement, including electric lights; but Lady Canning, when she was alone, still clung to the old-fashioned candle-light, claiming it was softer, more agreeable for her eyes. Jennings was still allowed to perform the function of many years, much to his delight. He had a deep-rooted hatred of all innovations.

"This suspense is quite natural," thought Lady Canning, "in spite of my confidence in Thurston. I am a mother. A mother fears everything—and hopes everything."

Jennings suddenly paused in his occupation and inclined his head, listening. Then he blew out his taper, and hurried to the window. "They're here, yer leddyship! Yer leddyship!" His voice quivered with excitement, and he looked apprehensively at his mistress, as though he feared she might faint or give way in some respect. She rose, supporting herself upon a cane.

"Jennings," she said in a strong voice, "you had better join the other servants in the hall. You will be the first for whom your master will look."

"Ye—es, yer leddyship."

"I am prepared for anything," thought Lady Canning. "But no matter how unfavorably I may be impressed at first sight, I must control my feelings for Thurston's sake. He will naturally be sensitive regarding her."

Thurston presented a beaming face to the servants, lining the hall, as he entered with his bride. Before he greeted them, he took Indiana in his arms and pressed a kiss on her lips.

"Welcome to your new home, my dearest wife! I'm glad to see you all," he added, in heartfelt tones. "Jennings, you're looking well!" He pressed both the old man's hands in his.

"Welcome home, yer lordship, yer lordship!"

"Indiana, this is Jennings. You've heard me speak of him. He's been in the family since I was a child."

Indiana's blue eyes smiled into those of the old Scotchman. "How do you do, Jennings?" she said, with a friendly handshake. Jennings carried her hand, with a shaking motion, to his lips.

"His lordship's young wife," he murmured, looking with ecstatic delight into her face.

"My mother, Jennings?"

"Her leddyship's well, yer lordship. Her leddyship's in the library."

He hurried before them, but Thurston rushed past him, carrying Indiana on his arm, his hand clasped on hers. They laughed back at the old man, and he echoed the laugh childishly, with tears in his eyes. "You can't announce us, Jennings!" cried Thurston.

Lady Canning was still standing, with stately repose, by the fire. There was no trace, on her calm face, of the agitation she had been suffering, beyond an expression of pleasurable anticipation—the only visible sign of feeling in which she would allow herself to indulge.

"Mother!"

"My dear son!"

He held her in a prolonged embrace. When he finally released her, she applied a morsel of lace to her eyes.

"My wife, mother," he said in a voice of immeasurable content and pride, placing Indiana in her arms. "Your daughter, Indiana."

Lady Canning was conscious of holding a morsel of humanity in her arms and of pressing her lips to a childish cheek. Then, as she surveyed her, she received an impression of something very young and small, with the coloring of an apple-blossom, whose deep-blue eyes met hers, struggling between consciousness, laughter and tears.

Realizing that her vague fears had no worse foundation than this childish creature, daintily costumed, her relief was so great that she took her in her arms again and pressed another kiss on her forehead.

Though Thurston had been perfectly confident of the effect Indiana would produce, he was none the less delighted at this mark of favorable impression.

"My dear child," said Lady Canning, "you must look upon me as a mother—you are still too young to be without one."

In order to control her tears, Indiana bit her handkerchief, which she was nervously rolling in her hands. The difference between her mother's last despairing kiss and the touch of Lady Canning's calm lips, was too strong.

"You no doubt wish to go to your apartments now, my dear," said Lady Canning, kindly.

"Yes, I should," agreed Indiana with a little, nervous laugh. She was quite indifferent about going to her apartments just then, but there was such a sure assumption of her acquiescence in Lady Canning's tone it was almost equivalent to an order.

"Thurston, ring for Watson. We will have tea presently. You are longing for some tea, my dear, are you not?"

"Yes," said Indiana, feeling that it was expected of her to say so.

"Watson, show Lady Canning her apartment. They have been newly furnished for you, my dear child, and I have not only followed Thurston's written injunctions, but, in addition, carried out some of my own." Thurston raised her hand, which he was holding, to his lips. She smiled on him fondly. "I hope you will like your rooms, Indiana."

"I am sure I shall, Lady Canning," said Indiana, with a bright smile and a mental resolve to like them very much. She had recovered from the tearful stage and felt now quite equal to her surroundings.

"And you will find your maid a very competent person—she brought the highest references," added Lady Canning.

Thurston led her to the door, pressing a kiss on her forehead.

"Is everyone old here?" thought Indiana, as Watson, a very elderly woman with snow-white hair, led the way, mounting the stairs with difficulty. "I don't like old people to wait on me. I shall feel more like waiting on them." However, she found the maid Lady Canning had selected, a very young, cheerful person. The gloomy impression she had received below was counteracted by her own suite of rooms, which were cheerfully and lightly furnished, in the daintiest of coloring. The boudoir was hung in shades varying from rose to palest pink; the ceiling hollowed and tinted to imitate a sea-shell; fairy-like crystal fixtures gleamed from the walls. There were a few treasures of art here and there amidst the draperies. A Greuze, hung in the best light, attracted Indiana immediately. Pink roses filled every available spot, in fragile vases of Venetian glass of the dolphin design. Indiana felt an impulse of gratitude toward Lady Canning for these preparations, in which loving care and the most exquisite taste were apparent. Minute attention had been paid to detail—no possible contrivance for her comfort overlooked. The maid told her that Lady Canning, herself, had arranged the flowers in the boudoir and upon the dressing-table.

"I must have acted like a fool at first," thought Indiana, fastening a pink rose, from one of the vases, in the breast of her travelling-dress, before going down. "When she said something about being a mother to me—that set me off. Poor ma! I hope she isn't fretting. I can't forget dad yet, as he looked when he wished me good-bye." Stillwater had not allowed his wife to go down to the steamer—he thought she had suffered enough. Mrs. Bunker remained with her daughter. When Indiana waved her handkerchief as the steamer left the dock, he thought of the day when she was laid in his arms.

"She is very young, Thurston," remarked Lady Canning, after Indiana had left the library, "a mere child."

"A mere child," echoed Thurston, with a very tender intonation. "You are right, mother." He sat down close beside her, taking her hand in his. "Yet I was instantly attracted to her. You, too, will soon feel the charm that she exercises, all unconsciously. I have no words to tell you how I love her." His face grew very serious.

"That is quite enough to recommend her. She must certainly have exceptional qualities. A very fortunate girl to have inspired such a love in you—I daresay she fully realizes that."

Thurston smiled involuntarily. Indiana took his devotion as a matter of course.

"She has a winning smile," said Lady Canning. "I could see she was quite effected by the warmth of my reception—I no doubt remind her of her own mother. She is very young to marry and leave home. But perhaps after all her youth is in her favor. She is such a child it will be easy to mould her—don't you think so, Thurston?"

"Er—yes, of course, mother," answered Thurston, pulling his mustache in some perplexity. He foresaw an endless vista of trouble in case of any perceptible effort to mould Indiana.

"We must not expect too much of the child," continued Lady Canning. "Be sure you do not make such a mistake in the beginning, Thurston. Coming from a place where there is no idea of caste, she will naturally make many mistakes. It will take time before she can fit into her position as she should. You see, Thurston, I am ready to make every allowance for your wife."

He bent down and kissed her frail white hands. There was a large measure of reverence in his love for her. "I have given Indiana my Greuze, Thurston."

"Your Greuze, of which you've always been so fond?"

"Yes. I believe in the influence of fine arts upon the young. Your wife's mind is now budding out, drinking every new impression as eagerly as a flower drinks the dew. It is for us to see that those impressions are of the highest nature."

Indiana entered, very bright and smiling. She went immediately up to Lady Canning and kissed her.

"I don't know how to thank you for all the trouble you have taken, Lady Canning."

Lady Canning smiled in a gratified manner. "I am amply repaid, if you are pleased, my dear child."

Jennings then brought in the tea. He looked so aged, Indiana felt like jumping up and taking the tray from him, at the same time pushing him gently into an arm-chair. He was a little, thin old man with sharp features and blue eyes, his snow-white hair plastered smoothly on each side of his head. He had been in the family since a boy, and, as is generally so in such cases, his individuality, his interests, or, properly speaking, his entire life, had become absorbed in those whom he had served. His position now was purely nominal, consisting principally of light duties, which kept him in near proximity to the family.

Lady Canning, talking in her low, distinct tones, dispensed the tea from a very old massive tea-service. Indiana noticed that she never raised her voice, and she dropped her own insensibly. She was, wisely, not too profuse in her praises of her apartments, quick to see that Lady Canning was not of a nature to appreciate much demonstration. But she continued to show her gratitude delicately by an opportune remark now and then.

"I have not heard much from your Uncle Nelson," remarked Lady Canning. "Oh, don't worry about him," laughed Indiana. "He's enjoying himself immensely—isn't he, Thurston?"

"Yes, my darling. He has really quite assimilated himself with the American life, mother."

"Indeed! You surprise me. One would have thought at his age, that that would have been very difficult—"

"Oh, not at all," interrupted Indiana. "You see, my grandmother has taken him in charge. They go out together, everywhere."

"Your grandmother," repeated Lady Canning, raising her eyebrows. "And she is able to go out—everywhere?"

Indiana gave vent to a burst of merriment, then checked herself, suddenly. Her laughter had sounded very loud in those quiet surroundings. "Grandma Chazy enjoys life more than any of us. She's full of health and spirits."

"Remarkable, is it not, Thurston?"

"Women don't grow old in the States, mother."

"They take all they can, out of life, to the last gasp," explained Indiana.

"I should not like to censure women of another environment to my own," said Lady Canning. "But at a certain age, I think it better fitting to prepare oneself for the next life, than to still seek enjoyment from this. How does it appear to you, my dear child?"

Indiana hesitated, then met Thurston's eyes fixed anxiously upon her. "As you say, Lady Canning, I think it would be better fitting," she answered, seriously.

"I'm glad you agree with me," said Lady Canning, well pleased. "From this one example, Thurston, I am inclined to think that my ideas and Indiana's run very much in the same groove."

"So it seems," he answered, stroking her hand, and watchful of Indiana, whose face, however, maintained its serious expression. From this conversation, Lady Canning was artfully led by her daughter-in-law into delivering a homily on the seriousness of life, and the necessity of control, where the pleasure-loving instincts of the young were concerned. Indiana took every opportunity of agreeing with her, sitting up stiffly, like a flaxen-haired doll, in the high backed chair, nodding at intervals, and with an expression of grave self-importance, that contrasted oddly with her rosebud prettiness. Meeting Thurston's eyes, which were fixed upon her in open surprise, she frowned reprovingly, and drew herself up a little more stiffly. "This is a very happy moment for me," said Lady Canning, with a gentle sigh, "to have you with me again, Thurston—with your wife—I can hardly realize it yet. I think Indiana and I are going to be very congenial, Thurston. Come here, and sit down by me, my dear child."

Indiana obeyed, and Lady Canning took her hand and patted it gently.

"Now I have a son and a daughter. I hope you will be happy in your new home, my dear."

"Thank you, Lady Canning," said Indiana, "I intend to be happy."

"That's right. Now, though we have much to say, I think it advisable to reserve it for this evening. It is best that I should rest until dinner."

"I hope this has not been too much excitement for you, mother," said Thurston, solicitously, giving her his arm.

"Pleasant excitement will not harm me, but I must be careful. I will see you at dinner, Indiana." She kissed her on the forehead. Thurston led her to the door, Indiana accompanying them.

"I did not know you were such an artist in dissimulation, Indiana," said Thurston, taking her head in his hands and gazing into her mischievous eyes.

"To what are you referring, may I ask?" she inquired, in a dignified tone.

"Why, the tactics you have begun with my mother. She thinks you are a perfect paragon."

"And, am I not?" drawing herself up.

"Yes," answered Thurston, laughing and kissing her hands.

Indiana found dinner a slow and tedious ceremony. It was noiselessly served, without the clatter of a dish or the sound of a footfall. At intervals, Jennings' old face peered into hers, consulting her wishes in a whisper. Their places were set very far apart at the large, round table, handsomely equipped with heavy silver and crystal, as though for a formal banquet, and decorated with white roses and maidenhair fern, in honor of the bride. She had selected from her trousseau a French gown of white satin, showing her childish neck. The maid had dressed her yellow hair in puffs in the correct English style. She was very quiet during dinner. Her head still felt a little unsteady from the steamer, and when Thurston or Lady Canning spoke, their voices sounded very far away.

Her impressions that first night in her new home were most indistinct. She had a floating conception during dinner of old mahogany, silver, and armor. Later, in the library, as she listened to Thurston entertaining his mother with details of his American trip, she was the victim of a feeling of unreality, inspired by surroundings altogether new and so entirely old. The candle-light seemed to point, with long, mysterious fingers, to the books which lined the walls, indicating dark and magic secrets locked between their ancient covers, and to waver upon the faded figures in the Gobelin tapestries until they appeared to move, endowed with life. Lady Canning, leaning back near the fire, with her fine, pinched features, her white, fragile hands resting motionless upon the arms of her chair, seemed like a figure moulded in wax.

When his mother retired, Thurston took Indiana through the house. Jennings solemnly preceded them, lighting up the rooms. Standing in the background, he nodded his head from time to time in corroboration, as Thurston explained the family portraits and related the histories of various heirlooms.

As the first months in England slowly passed, Indiana's single life seemed like a dream to her. Her marriage proved the changing of every condition, as she had wished. And she preferred to think she had acted for the best. One fact gave her a great and unselfish pleasure. She had won Lady Canning's love, completely, by pursuing the artful policy with which she had started, based on a very shrewd idea of the elder woman's character.

Thurston missed her old spontaneity, and watched her closely, unknown to her. His loving solicitude, which often tried to discover delicately if she missed her old life, or if there was anything lacking in the new which he could supply, only made her impatient. She professed to be perfectly happy, yet he sometimes felt as though he had caged a bird, who refused to sing. Still the bird had flown willingly into his hand. His tender worship had won nothing from her, so far, but an amiable tolerance. They were in the position of queen and vassal. His pride suffered bitterly at times. His hope that she would learn to love him had grown into a great and secret longing. He felt it to be the only solution of them both. His very existence was now based on this consummation. The best of life is given to building a beautiful fabric of spider's webs, colored with the passing tints of the rainbow—because there is an everlasting charm in that which fades before the eyes, and can be demolished by a touch.

CHAPTER XIV.

Transplantation.

Lord Stafford arrived in England some months later. He drove up to the house one Sunday morning an hour earlier than he was expected. Lady Canning and Indiana had not yet come home from church. After welcoming him, with tears of joy, Jennings tottered upstairs to tell Thurston. Lord Stafford went into the library and, with a sense of happiness to be again in his old surroundings, toasted himself once more before an English fire.

"Uncle Nelson!" exclaimed Thurston, rushing into the room.

"Thurston, my boy!"

Relinquishing his hand, Lord Stafford subjected his nephew to a critical survey.

"Well," said Thurston, laughing, "is the examination satisfactory?"

"You've changed—for the better," answered his uncle with a puzzled expression. "More vivacity. In fact, you've grown younger."

"I'll explain. I was an old bachelor. Now, I am a young married man." They both laughed heartily.

"So the international combination has panned out, as we say in the States?"

"Worked like a charm from the start," said Thurston.

"Remarkable. And with your mother?"

"Mother has completely succumbed to Indiana, and spoils her shockingly."

"I'm very glad of that, I'm sure. I've been homesick ever since I saw you off with your bride, but I was really afraid to come home until the new wife had fitted into the new conditions."

"You don't know my Indiana. Wait until you see how well she fits into the new conditions." They heard the sound of carriage-wheels. Thurston hurried to the window, his face lighting up. "Here they are—here's my wife!"

Lord Stafford met them at the door of the library. "My dear sister!" folding her in his arms.

"Nelson, I'm very glad to have you at home, you wanderer! You look marvellously well, and tanned by the sun. Have you seen our dear little daughter? Where are you, Indiana?" Thurston had drawn her to the fire and was taking off her gloves.

"Here, dear Lady Canning," said Indiana demurely, with a strong effort at an English accent. "How do you do, Uncle Nelson?" She offered her cheek, which he kissed, then surveyed her with great curiosity. She looked the personification of English maidenhood, dressed in a plain, gray gown, without any pretension to style of cut. A little bonnet, tied under her chin, rested on her yellow puffs. She stood there, very demure and quiet, still holding her prayer-book.

"And how do you find our sweet child looking, Nelson?" inquired Lady Canning, sinking into an arm-chair.

"By George, I should say I found her very much changed!"

"For the better, dear Uncle Nelson?" said Indiana, sweetly.

"When we transplant a flower," remarked Lady Canning, "we must watch it very carefully for a time, lest it wither in the process. Indiana is a most flexible little person. She appears to have taken root in our soil so easily. She had not been here a week when she was perfectly at home."

"Thanks to your good advice, Lady Canning. You have taken so much trouble with me."

"To be frank, Nelson, Indiana was a most agreeable surprise. When Thurston wrote me that he had selected a wife in the wilds of America, I felt ill with fright. I couldn't find out anything about the place, and the name suggested horrible visions of half-breeds and wild girls who climb trees and ride horses bareback."

"America is a very large country, dear Lady Canning," said Indiana. "There are tree-climbers and bareback riders in the uncivilized parts, I believe." Thurston turned away to conceal a laugh. "In fact, I myself must have appeared—er—strange to you at first, did I not, dear Lady Canning?"

"Oh, no! Only a little rasping quality in the voice, which has since greatly modified."

"That is our climate, dear Lady Canning. The sharp winds have a tendency to pitch our voices in a high key."

"And your gowns, dear, were a little too modern—too expensive for a young wife. You don't mind my saying it, Indiana?"

Indiana gave her an angelic smile. "I am so grateful to you. Lady Canning has given me the real English taste in the selection of a gown," parading before Lord Stafford, who, inserting his monocle, inspected her seriously. "Dowdy, isn't it?" she whispered, as Lady Canning bent over the fire, warming her hands. "I adore Irish poplins, Scotch plaids, English cheviots—and seed-cake. My first bonnet! Isn't it a love?" She tossed her head waggishly in Lord Stafford's face, so that a bunch of Prince-of-Wales feathers tickled his nose. "So unbecoming!" she added in his ear. Lady Canning turned, with an expression of smiling satisfaction.

"In my time, dear, as soon as a girl married, she wore a bonnet with strings. That's always the sign of a matron in England. You know there must be something to distinguish the married from the single woman."

"Yes, certainly, I approve of it," said Indiana. "Then there can be no fear of any mistakes being made by strangers." She heaved a deep sigh of conscious virtue. Lord Stafford dropped his monocle and fell into a chair, laughing unrestrainedly.

"You've caught on, Indiana! Ha, ha, ha, ha! As they say in the States—you've mashed them cold all 'round! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"

"Dear Nelson," said Lady Canning, severely, "what do you mean by such expressions? They appear to me very vulgar. Is it really American, Indiana?"

"Not at all, dear Lady Canning," said Indiana, reassuringly. "Those expressions you have just heard," she shivered slightly, "are mere barbarisms. They are used only by the natives of the uncultivated wastes."

"The natives. A sort of dialect, I suppose, my darling. Go and lay off your bonnet and smooth your hair."

Indiana pouted rebelliously at Thurston. "May I go?" Sweetly, "Thank you very much."

She kissed Lady Canning and walked demurely to the door.

"Remarkable!" murmured Lord Stafford.

"The child has perfect manners," commented Lady Canning, with a sigh of content, as Thurston followed Indiana from the room. "One would think she had been born and bred in England, thanks to my policy, from the very beginning. I don't allow her to call me mother—the child's too young. It's a better moral effect—and, with a little tender firmness, combined with just a spark of dignity that awes, I have accomplished wonders. I shudder to think what would have been the results if I had not been here. Thurston spoils her shockingly."

"Ah, does he? Very wrong of him, very unwise, I'm sure."

"Yes, is it not? But it's turned out very gratifyingly. You know how averse I've always been to Thurston marrying a modern woman—one of those editing magazines, forming clubs and racing women?" She shuddered. "When Thurston broke it to me, I was very doubtful of the results—very. But his heart carried him away. I don't wonder at it. She's so bright, so clever, so amusing, so lovable. She must have come from very fine stock."

"Very," answered Lord Stafford, seriously. "You should see Grandma Chazy Bunker. She 'beats the band'—as they say in the States." He regarded the ceiling with an expression of delightful reminiscence, which broadened gradually into a laugh. He rose suddenly and approached his sister. "Helena, I am going to let you into a little secret." He looked around mysteriously, then added, in a loud whisper, "Indiana's people are in London. They came over with me from America."

"Who?"

"Her father, mother, and grandmother, and, as they say in the States"—Lady Canning braced herself from the shock which inevitably followed this remark—"'they're going to make Indiana's hair curl!'"

"Speak English, if you please."

"They're going to give her a surprise party."

Lady Canning looked at him incredulously. "Do you mean to say they're going to drop down on that poor child without sending her word?"

"You can bet your sweet life on it! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" He sank into an arm-chair, overcome with mirth. The entire affair was a huge joke to him, irrespective of the fact that his sister failed to perceive the humor of his communication.

"What an undignified proceeding!" said Lady Canning, in shocked tones. "Her grandmother, too!" Lord Stafford went off into another paroxysm of mirth. "Why, the highest respect is due to their age in the way of preparation."

"In America there's nothing gives so much pleasure as springing things on a person. The surprise party is a national institution."

Lady Canning rose to her feet, perceptibly agitated. "My dear brother, think of the shock to Indiana. It might be serious."

"'She won't turn a hair'—as we say in the States. She's a thoroughbred! Ha, ha, ha, ha!"

"I'm very glad you told me. I must go and make some kind of a toilette to receive them, and the housekeeper must be apprised."

"My dear sister, 'don't put yourself out'—as we say in the States."

"Poor Indiana! Most unheard-of proceedings!"

During dinner Indiana plied Lord Stafford with questions about her family, all of which he answered seriously, with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. Lady Canning regarded her unconscious face with growing sympathy. She went to her rooms immediately after dinner. "I shall not make my appearance," she thought, "until all the excitement is over. I am upset enough as it is. I can scarcely look at that poor child—I feel so badly for her."

Indiana, entering the library demurely, and seeing that Thurston and Lord Stafford were alone, rushed toward them with a shrill little cry. She laughed as they both started to their feet.

"I'm only giving vent to my repressed exuberance. I can be natural with Uncle Nelson, can't I, Thurston?"

"Why not be natural with my mother? It pains me to see you playing a part with her. She's not such a dreadful person."

Indiana smiled comically at Lord Stafford, sinking down upon the hearth-rug at his feet. "The ingratitude of men! He asked me to make his mother love him, and to succeed it was necessary to adapt myself to her ways. If I had argued with her, he would have disagreed so radically it would have been impossible to live under the same roof. I know that it is a necessity at present, so I agree with her in everything. Consequently, I'm the best, the most lovable girl in the world. All the same, I own her, body and soul—that's my method of subjugation. Of course, he's not satisfied. Nothing I do pleases him."

"Indiana!"

"Uncle Nelson, I'm frightfully good," continued Indiana, ignoring Thurston, whose eyes were fastened upon her in mute and tender reproach. "I've never been so good in my life"—she clasped her hands, raising her eyes to the ceiling—"I feel like an angel—so sweet, so obedient, so ordinary. Thurston doesn't appreciate it. He doesn't love me as much as he did before we were married."

"Indiana!" exclaimed Thurston, seriously, "how can you say that?"

"I thought he was a gentleman of leisure, and he works harder than a farm hand. He sits up half the night, reading and studying. If I had known he was such a great scholar I wouldn't have married him."

"Indiana, do you mean that?"

"No,"—serious face—"I was only joking. Uncle Nelson, do you think he will ever be a great man?"

Lord Stafford glanced amusedly at Thurston. "I hope so."

"Oh, as great as Thomas Carlyle? Don't say yes, because I'll run away. You know what Jane Carlyle said about the wives of men of genius? They're more miserable even—than—than doctors' wives. Thurston has symptoms. He sits up all night and writes like Carlyle. Between times the old crank used to go out in the back yard, and sit on the fence and smoke a pipe—in his night-shirt. That's the next thing I'll get."

The two men laughed heartily. "You little witch," exclaimed Thurston, catching her up in his arms and kissing her, "you are simply irresistible!"

"Now, I'll give you an imitation of a chipmunk," cried Indiana, in high spirits, jumping up on a lounge, and imitating to perfection a chipmunk sitting on its haunches and nibbling a nut. Lord Stafford applauded, while Thurston watched the door, his mind divided between admiration for his little wife's clever imitation, and fear that his mother might enter during the performance.

"Do you remember the night we all went on a moonlight picnic to the Falls—and Glen was so jealous—poor Glen!—and we sang 'On the Banks of the Wabash'?—

'Oh, the moonlight's fair to-night along the Wabash,

From the field there comes the breath of new-mown hay,

Through the sycamores the candle-lights are gleaming,

On the banks of the Wabash, far away.'"

Her voice quivered and she sank upon the ground, sobbing like a child, with her head against the table.

Thurston made one quick step toward her and gathered her up in his arms. "My darling, don't cry! You break my heart." He pressed her to his breast, smoothing her hair mechanically. A hopeless expression had settled in his eyes. Lord Stafford looked at them miserably, then considered the best thing to do, under the circumstances, was to make his escape in the quietest manner possible.

Thurston sank into a chair, holding his wife closely to his heart. "I know you're homesick—unhappy," he whispered. "I feel it, and I'm helpless against it. What can I do?"

"Nothing of the kind," she said, lifting her head suddenly. "There—I frightened Uncle Nelson away!" She slipped from his arms to the floor. "I'm not homesick. I mean—not all the time." She gave a piteous little gulp. "That song upset me, and I had a terrible longing just to get a look at dad and mother and Grandma Chazy, and then pack them all home again." Thurston heaved a sigh from his heart. "I wish you wouldn't take me so seriously, Thurston," she continued, in an aggrieved voice. "Don't watch every quiver of my eyes, and think it's a tragedy. Discipline's a very good thing for me—I like it. But I wish you wouldn't believe every word I say. It's aggravating enough when your mother does it."

"I'll try not to. But I want to follow your thoughts—I want to be one with my wife." He drew her to him, gazing with yearning tenderness into her eyes. "It's difficult to—to adjust my slow emotions to your rapidly changing ones. You force my sympathy—and repel it—in a breath. Your moods change with the minutes. But all that wouldn't matter if I were sure you were learning to love me—to give only a little, in return for my deep affection. That would set my heart at rest and smooth away all difficulties." He looked beseechingly into her eyes. But she silently evaded his glance. Her face had grown suddenly very serious. "Indiana!"

"I—I was thinking—perhaps it was wrong to marry you—but I did not love anybody else—and I will try."

"Indiana, if you knew how your words stab me. You have a terrible capacity for torturing."

"Now you're sorry you married me."

"Sorry!" he repeated, intensely. "I'd give up my life sooner than you—I try to control my love, but I can't keep it always smothered. I don't want to frighten you, child—for you are only a child yet—but I shall keep my word when I said I will make you love me." He pressed her passionately in his arms. "Indiana!"

"Thurston!" she murmured, for the moment yielding to his embrace.

A discreet cough sounded in the room. Thurston released his wife instantly. Jennings came toward them, holding a salver out with a hand which shook more than usual. There was also a certain rigidity in his face, from the effort to conceal emotion of some kind. Thurston took the card from the salver, with a vague impression that there was something strange in Jennings' behavior. Then his own expression changed into incredulous surprise. He read, with a rising inflection of the voice which ended in a shout:

"Mr. and Mrs. Stillwater—Mrs. Chazy Bunker, Indiana, U.S.A."

CHAPTER XV.

"I Shall Keep My Promise."

Indiana, with a scream of joy, flung herself into her father's arms. He had followed Jennings closely. Also Mrs. Stillwater and Mrs. Bunker. The latter embraced Thurston exuberantly, then Mrs. Stillwater threw her arms about his neck, and immediately tore herself away from him, crying.

"That'll do, father. Let me have one kiss—oh!" She was almost hysterical with excitement. "That'll do, father." He finally gave Indiana over to her mother, who pressed her to her breast, with inarticulate expressions of love. Stillwater then shook hands with Thurston, who had met the onslaught calm and smiling, though inwardly rejoiced for his wife's sake.

"Come," said Mrs. Bunker, with a beaming face, "pass her round."

"You dear old things," cried Indiana, "this is what I call a surprise! Now sit down, all of you." She pulled her father and mother down on the lounge, sitting between them. Mrs. Stillwater gazed at her, speechless with happiness. Stillwater smoothed her hair tenderly, pressing her head against his breast. "Tell me all the news. How's everybody at home? Anybody engaged—or married? How did you happen to come? What put it in your heads? How long are you going to stay? How—?"

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunker, "one at a time, Indy."

Thurston stood aside, watching Indiana's radiant face, with an unselfish joy and an impulse of gratitude to the kindly chance which had brought her loved ones at the very moment when they were so urgently needed. Then he withdrew quietly, thinking she would like to be alone with them. He also wished to acquaint his mother with the surprise.

"I've come over only for one thing," said Mrs. Stillwater. "That's to see you, Indiana. After you left, and the excitement was over, I couldn't settle down again. My body was there, but my heart and soul were following you over the water. I don't know how we ever let you go," her eyes filled, "and I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to come over to see for myself if you were happy." She looked yearningly into Indiana's face.

"My dear mother," said Indiana, tenderly, pressing her cheek to hers, "my dear, kind, loving mother!"

"Mary," said Stillwater, severely. "It's done now, and we must make the best of it." The spectacle of his wife and child clasped in each other's arms, affected him to an intense degree. During the term of Indiana's engagement and marriage, he had found it necessary to be stern with his gentle wife—without stringent measures—from pure fear that she would collapse utterly. His severity served also as a moral brace, when he himself was concerned.

Jennings entered in his usual noiseless fashion. "Would yer little leddyship like tea served?"

"Yes, if you please, Jennings," answered Indiana, assuming her English accent. "Father, Jennings has been a butler in our family all his life." Every eye was centred upon Jennings, who bowed with a most self-congratulatory expression, and walked proudly from the room.

"Em—em—lack of ambition," said Stillwater, "that's the trouble with this country. I could see it before I was two hours landed. The Britishers are too well-satisfied with themselves. Life's too easy. They haven't had to grow up with a new town—they ought to have been in my shoes, eh, mother?"

Mrs. Bunker walked about, surveying the room.

"Father—mother—grandmother!" exclaimed Indiana, taking the centre of the room. "I have married into a great family. None of your new nobility. We are one of the few unadulterated families in England, which has never married out of its sphere—except in my case. And I shall assimilate, not diverge. No one speaks of progression here. All are sublimely content. New ideas are shunned, as modern depravity, by her ladyship. Look about you, at these old family relics—"

"I expect to see a ghost every moment," interrupted Mrs. Bunker, affecting to shiver.

"It's like a nasty old vault," whispered Mrs. Stillwater, confidentially, to her husband.

"There's nothing better than us," remarked Indiana, with a toss of her head. "Nothing, from an ancestral point of view."

"Indiana, drop that English accent," said Mrs. Bunker, sharply, "it's too affected."

"Hush!" answered Indiana, looking toward the door. Thurston entered, with Lady Canning on his arm.

Indiana approached her with a very marked change of manner, speaking in soft, low English tones. "My dear Lady Canning, I have had such a delightful surprise. This is my father and mother."

"My dear Mrs. Stillwater, I am really delighted. And Mr. Stillwater."

"And this is my grandmother," continued Indiana.

"Your grandmother!" exclaimed Lady Canning, staring in surprise at the vivacious and essentially modern woman before her. Mrs. Bunker, on this occasion, wore a very becoming, extremely youthful hat.

"It's difficult to realize, isn't it?" remarked Mrs. Bunker, laughing and flattered at Lady Canning's astonishment. "We consider it criminal in the States for a woman not to look at least ten years younger than she really is. I've always been regarded as a remarkable woman for my age."

"The costume is deceiving," answered Lady Canning, regarding Mrs. Bunker's fashionable attire with disapproving eyes. "At first glance I thought you were a young woman, Mrs.—er—"

"Bunker," smiling graciously.

"Mrs. Bunker. However, on close inspection, I see you are not."

Having thus summarily thrown cold water on Mrs. Bunker's enthusiasm, Lady Canning proceeded on Thurston's arm to her usual chair by the fire, Lord Stafford, entering shortly after, exchanged laughing greetings with his fellow-travellers.

"Lady Canning, I wouldn't harbor any old bachelors," remarked Mrs. Bunker, her irrepressible spirits rising to the surface again. "If he were my brother, I'd just turn him out, and he would be obliged to marry for a shelter."

"Mrs. Bunker," said Lord Stafford, "I once heard a Yankee farmer say, 'An old hoss that's been jogging along a good many years alone, is always good to jog along a few years more, but if you yoke him with another hoss, he's winded at once, and goes to the wall.' Ha, ha, ha, ha!"

Indiana, who was sitting at the tea-table, strained her eyes and ears, trying to hear everything that was said. At one time she became so absorbed, making anxious and involuntary comparisons between her relatives and Thurston's, that she forgot to pour out the tea, while Jennings stood anxiously watching her, waiting for the cups.

"And how do you find your daughter looking, Mrs. Stillwater?" inquired Lady Canning.

Mrs. Stillwater, sitting near the elder lady by the fire, shook her head dolefully. "Her color's not as high as it used to be. I suppose it's living in these dark, musty rooms. And she's used to flying about in the open air."

"Mother!" exclaimed Indiana.

"What is it, Indiana?" answered Mrs. Stillwater, starting.

Indiana gave her a warning glance. "You don't take sugar, do you?"

"No, dear," answered Mrs. Stillwater, quite oblivious to the glance, "Don't wait on me. Shall I pour the tea?"

"Sit down, dear Mrs. Stillwater," said Lady Canning. "Indiana always does her duty as mistress of the house. No doubt you miss her very much. I can understand that."

"I'll tell you frankly, I was very much against it, she's the only one we have. I begged her not to do it. I even warned Thurston against her. One must give in to Indiana in order to get along with her, and, living with a mother-in-law, I was afraid of it."

Lady Canning laughed quietly.

"Mother!" exclaimed Indiana.

"Yes, dear," answered Mrs. Stillwater. She went over to Indiana and bent over her.

"Stop that," whispered Indiana.

Mrs. Stillwater looked at her with a piteous expression, then sank down into a chair near the tea-table.

"This cup is for Lady Canning. No, Jennings, I'll take it to her myself."

Mrs. Stillwater watched her jealously as she waited on Lady Canning, and drank her tea with a vague feeling of disappointment in her reunion with Indiana. Mr. Stillwater inspected, with interest, various objects in the room, walking about with Thurston, their cups in their hands.

"There's a solidity about all this, which speaks for itself," said Mr. Stillwater. "It's no use talking, a man can't buy it." Thurston called his attention to a tapestry. "Yes, I know—Gobelin—very fine. I admire it right here, because it belongs here. But when our millionaires import other people's old furniture, even that of princes and cardinals, and put it in their brand-new American homes—it seems to me snobbery. The only value of an antique is when it belongs to a nation."

"I agree with you, Mr. Stillwater."

After some further conversation, Lady Canning said, gently, to Indiana, "My darling, will you excuse me now? I know you have much to say to your people." She shook hands graciously with them all. "Now, when will you come and dine with us?"

"Oh, we'll run in any old time," said Mrs. Bunker.

"We won't wait for invitations," added Mr. Stillwater. "We'll run over to breakfast or supper, just as the spirit moves us. We'll take possession while we're here."

"You will always be very welcome whenever you care to come," answered Lady Canning. "But we are not used to being taken unawares." She bowed with a set smile, as she left the room leaning on her brother's arm. But her presence was still felt by a perceptible chill in the atmosphere. Thurston, however, soon dispelled the restraint. He took them through the house, entertaining them with histories of different family relics, to which they listened with interest. Then they adjourned to his own particular den, where all the trophies of his travels were collected. Finally Indiana carried them off to her apartments, leaving Thurston in his den. When they were all comfortably installed in the boudoir, Indiana, leaning on her mother's breast, looked thoughtfully up in her face and then at the others. She could scarcely realize that they were substantial creations.

"Indiana Stillwater," said Mrs. Bunker, "the way you crawl to that woman is very un-American."

"In England it's the custom for people to pay great respect to their elders."

"That's a nice slap in the face for us," remarked Mrs. Bunker.

"Grandma Chazy, you don't want the deference due to age," answered Indiana, propitiatingly. "You won't for many years, I hope. Think of treating ma and pa like that. They wouldn't like it a bit."

"No," said Mrs. Stillwater, "we're satisfied as long as you love us. But don't let anyone else take our place." She pressed her lips to Indiana's soft hair, crying silently. Indiana tightened her arms about her mother's waist, unaware of the tears that were falling on her yellow puffs.

"Well, then," said Mrs. Bunker, "just put on your things and come and have supper with us at the hotel. All the Americans in town will be there, beside the English celebrities. Come along. I'll show you the whole push."

"I'd love to go."

"We'll have a good time, if it is Sunday night. Well, what are you sitting there for? Get your things on."

"I must ask my husband," said Indiana, slowly, the eager sparkle suddenly dying in her eyes.

Mrs. Bunker sank down in the chair, from which she had sprung in her enthusiasm. "Indiana Stillwater, I never thought you would turn out such a spiritless kind of a woman. Of course it's none of my business, but if you start in this way, you'll lose your entire individuality."

"It's not so, Grandma Chazy. I do just as I like. I allow no one to compel me."

"You're quite right to ask your husband, and, if it's against his religious views, you stay home and read the Bible to his mother." Mrs. Bunker went to the mirror, arranging her hat, as if the question had been settled.

"It's not so!" exclaimed Indiana, rising and stamping her foot. "You don't understand the conditions of life over here."

"It's the thing in London now, to dine out on Sunday nights. You can't tell me, Indiana Stillwater."

"It may be the thing, but we don't do it. Must I tell you again I have married into a very conservative family?"

"We're not good enough for you, now," replied Mrs. Bunker, sarcastically.

"I'll always love my own people, but I won't be blind to their faults. We lack culture and repose."

"You may be right, Indy," said Mr. Stillwater, hitherto a silent listener. "But if you keep cultivating a field of wheat right along, you'll cultivate it till it doesn't produce anything. They're running to seed fast here—and we're still bearing strong. Repose! Let them have it. Thank heaven, we youngsters are always on our feet. Now, mother!" Mrs. Stillwater was crying. At the sight of her tears Indiana capitulated.

"I'll come, mother," she said, despairingly, throwing herself on her knees beside her.

"Darling!" cried Mrs. Stillwater. "Don't you think we ought to ask Thurston?"

"I'll ask him, of course," said Indiana, "but I'm sure he won't come."

"We'll manage without him," said Mrs. Bunker. "On second thoughts, I think we'll send for you, Indiana." She looked significantly at the others. "We'll send for her at eight o'clock." They nodded. "That'll just give you time to dress. We've another surprise in store for you." They all laughed.

"Ah, don't tell me. It's so nice to look forward to something one don't expect."

"Take off that dowdy thing," directed Mrs. Bunker. "Go back to your trousseau."

"We turned you out better than that," commented Stillwater, looking her over. Indiana pouted like a child, teased. Thurston emerged from his den as they descended the stairs. Lord Stafford also joined them below in the library.

"Thurston," asked Stillwater, taking him aside, "has she broken out yet?" Thurston shook his head, laughing.

Stillwater took Indiana in his arms.

"Goodbye. God bless you!"

Mrs. Bunker kissed her vehemently.

"I couldn't let you go," whispered Mrs. Stillwater. "If I wasn't sure I'd see you to-night."

Indiana sank into a chair as they all left the room, Thurston and Lord Stafford accompanying them to the door. Her thoughts were in a whirl. Her pride had been hurt at the idea her family should think she was not utterly a free agent, and that was one of the main reasons why she had consented to join them that night. Then they brought her old life back so forcibly. If her relatives had suffered in comparison with Thurston's, her present life now suffered in comparison with the old—its freedom, and lack of obligation. She realized now that she had been truly queen of her own territory. She heard them all laughing and talking below. Gradually their voices died away, the voices of her old life. She felt a sense of loneliness.

It was early spring, when Jennings made it a rule to light the candles later. Everything in the room had faded into the growing dusk. The old objects so easily blended with a waning light. Indiana heard Thurston laughing heartily with Lord Stafford, as they ascended the stairs.

"All in the dark, sweetheart!" He touched the electric button of the lamp on the table, revealing Indiana, buried in one of the big chairs, gazing dismally before her. The smile died on his face.

"Oh, go on! Don't mind me!" exclaimed Indiana. "Laugh at them! Ridicule them! Tell me you don't want them to darken your doors again. I'm ready for anything."

"Indiana!" exclaimed Thurston, justly hurt at this unreasonable outburst. "How can you? I wasn't laughing in that way. I find your people very witty and amusing. As for separating you from them, I hope we shall see as much of them as we possibly can. Grandma Chazy is a new creation for us. We simply revel in her. She'll make a sensation wherever she goes. I shouldn't wonder if she would marry well and settle down in England. There now, the storm's over." He smoothed the hair back from her forehead with a soothing touch. "Poor little thing, she's had a shock. I hate surprises myself. Lie down for an hour and rest. Come," lifting her up from the chair, "I'll put you on the sofa."

"No, no!" protested Indiana, "there's no time. I—I have promised to go out." He looked at her in astonishment. "The folks wouldn't take 'no' for an answer," affecting not to notice his surprise, "and naturally, they want me with them as much as possible."

"Naturally!" said Thurston, coldly. If she wished to go out with her family, why had she not consulted him first, he thought, instead of considering it sufficient to merely apprise him of her intention.

"I won't ask you to waste your night," she said, carelessly, endeavoring to make it apparent that she was quite innocent of any departure from the conventional order of things. He looked at her again, in astonishment. Why should she assume a night spent with her was wasted? It was an evident fact he was not wanted. "But, you can call for me," she wound up, airily.

"Where?"

"Oh, they've mapped out a programme," she answered, irrelevantly. "Grandma Chazy knows what's to be seen." She turned to leave the room, as though summarily dismissing the subject.

"I am only your husband, it is true, but I think I have a right to know, if my wife goes out, where she is going."

Indiana paused half way to the door. "I'm going to dine with them at the Cecil, where they are stopping." He was silent. She waited, in some suspense, for a remark, her hand on the door.

"I am sorry to disappoint you—but I cannot permit you to go," he said, at length, slowly. "It's not the place for Lady Canning. It may be all very well for strangers—sight-seers—but London is our home. These places are resorts for foreigners, professional women, men-about-town, and others, who delight to bask in the public eye. I have another reason. I do not wish you to be seen in public, until I have formally presented you—as my wife." He approached her and removing her hand gently from the handle of the door, led her back into the room. She went unwillingly, her head drooping. "Indiana," he put his hand under her chin and lifted her face, so that her eyes met his. "I don't wish to force you, but to convince you. Admit it would be a very foolish and inconsistent thing to do."

"Yes, but that's just why I want to do it," she answered, wilfully deaf to the note of appeal in his voice.

"You child! Come now," he forced her gently to lie down on the sofa. "Quiet that eager little mind of yours," tucking her carefully in a rug. "Shut those restless American eyes and sleep for a while. Dream yourself into good humor again." He closed her eyes, patting her cheek tenderly.

"Thurston, they've got a surprise for me," she said, piteously.

"What, another!" he exclaimed. "Your nerves won't stand any more surprises to-night. Now, in one hour, I shall come in and awaken my sleeping beauty with a kiss." Indiana made a little grimace and shut her eyes tightly. He watched her for a moment.

"Asleep already," bending over her, "or sulking—which?"

She flung the rug from her, suddenly sitting up. "Thurston, I want to go. Thurston, why can't I go?"

"Because you yourself have acknowledged it would not be right," he answered, coldly. Her small, red lips drooped plaintively, she coiled herself up on the sofa in a disconsolate attitude. Thurston stood watching her. The sad, little face staring at the fire, stirred his sympathy. This was the first request he had ever refused. He felt an impulse to press her against his heart and beg her not to grieve—to tell her that he felt her disappointment far deeper than she herself could have any idea of. But pride prevented him. He had lately been chary in his demonstrations. His nature, which at first had sung a pæan over the mere fact that she was his, rejoicing in the lavish display of its love, gradually conscious of no hint of response, only a tacit acceptance, had crept back into its cloak of reserve. He suffered from the repression, becoming at times the victim of a terrible discouragement—that sinking of the heart, inevitable to the thought that one has given one's very best in vain. He realized what a frail structure he had builded—that beautiful fairy fabric of spider's webs, illuminated with the tints of the rainbow. Standing, watching Indiana, Thurston remembered the day when she had promised to marry him—that gray, soft, still evening in autumn. It had been like a tender poem. He had likened the little path between the trees upon which they walked, to the dim, narrow aisle of a church, leading to the altar. It had led them to the altar, but he had failed yet to realize the dream, the infinite suggestion beyond. He felt they were still kneeling there. He and the church had done their part. It needed Indiana only to make the bond complete. He suffered in a great measure for her sake alone. Could she respect her own womanhood as his wife when she failed to love him, he asked himself. She, too, might be suffering, without his knowledge. The little figure maintained its disconsolate position. It was only a trivial matter, after all, but he did not want her to harbor the least resentment against him.

"Indiana," he said, tenderly, placing his hand on her head, "do you remember the day I asked you to be my wife? Do you forget already the condition upon which you accepted me?"