Front matter (continued 5)

"You darling!" said my new Bill. "You lovely little thing. I adore you—"

"Why didn't you tell me so before?" I asked, in what was a deplorably peevish tone.

"Tell you! And get my face slapped! You were the prickliest small porcupine, for all your soft ways—rather not! But Gosh," said Bill, "it was hard—"

"You might have saved us a lot of trouble," said I reproachfully.

He got to his feet and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Might I? I didn't know, you see. I had had your repeated assurance that you regarded me as dirt under your little feet. How could I tell you?"

"You were awfully stupid!" said I, with keen satisfaction.

But he was kissing my finger-tips, protruding stiffly through the neat bandaging.

"Dear little hands!" he said. "Oh, Mavis—if anything had happened to you—"

"If anything had happened to you—!" said I, and for a moment we looked at each other in a sort of blind horror. Presently he smiled.

"But we're as right as rain!" said he. "We're young, all life before us—and we love each other—Thank God!" he ended, on a deep, grave note.

"Thank God!" said I, and put my arms up to him.

When he raised his head, his eyes were shining.

"My beloved wife!" said Bill.

I put him from me for a moment—looked into his eyes.

"Please," I said, very low, "it's all so new—and a little terrifying. I—I didn't know I could feel like this. Will you let us go on just as we are—for a little while—? Perhaps I'm silly—but—I can't help it. Please," I begged, "won't you let me get a little used to you—?"

His eyes were very tender now.

"Of course," he said. "You know that."

"A real engagement!" said I happily.

"That's the best thing, after all," said Bill, laughing, "married first, and then engaged for the rest of one's life!"

He held me very closely.

"I'll cherish you always," he said, "all my life long. I've wanted you so—Mavis. You'll never know. God bless you, my dearest!"

"Father," I said in my heart, "you were right: you knew. I'm so happy—"

And my heart answered me.

"Where are you going?" said I, sternly, to my husband, as he laid me back on my pillows and turned away.

"Outside," said he, with the old, impish grin, "to dance a fandango on the lawn! And, incidentally, to put on some clothes and pretend an intelligent interest—which I don't in the least experience—in Harry Reynolds destroyed sugar-crop. Bless those incendiary natives!" he added, piously.

"Back soon?" I asked.

"Don't look at me like that!" said Bill severely, "or I won't be able to go! As your physician I forbid you to endanger my pulse. It is hardly normal now. Try and rest, dear, and when I come back I want to see more steady color in your cheeks. You've had a pretty bad shock, Mavis—"

"I should say I have!" I said, in tones I vainly tried to infuse with self-pity. "How about yourself?"

He blew me a kiss—just a mean, tiny one—and vanished without answering, but poked his head in at the door immediately after, to ask, seriously,

"Shall I bring you a statement of your indebtedness to me when I return, Mrs. Denton?"

"I wish I'd cost you more," said I, crossly. "You just wait—I'm going to buy a trousseau when I get to New York that will put you in the poor-house. I'm afraid," said I primly, "that I must ask you to wait for your settlement, Doctor."

"I'll keep you so in debt," he declared, "that you will never be able to struggle out, and you'll pay me in love, young person, for every sleepless night I've spent, and every swear I've sworn behind closed doors, and for every time I've wanted to take you in my arms and kiss you till you cried for mercy—"

"I think—I shouldn't have cried," I said, reflectively.

He was back in the room again.

"For heaven's sake," said I, extricating myself with some difficulty, "what will people think—door open and everything?"

But it was fully ten minutes before he really went.

I closed my eyes, and with Father's miniature under my pillow, tried to sleep. So happy—so happy! It was hard to lie still and think. So I didn't think. I kissed the ring on my finger, under the bandages, half a dozen times, and slept, at last, drifting from dream into dream.

Life was very wonderful. And the Love that had suffered and strayed was the most perfect, at the last. For all the times I had hurt him, how I would repay my husband, with depth on depth of devotion. I would make it up to him—

Through water and fire....

CHAPTER XXI

The boat pulled slowly away from the docks. Standing at the rail, I could plainly see the brilliant feather on Mercedes' little French hat, nodding in the breeze. A fleck of white was in her hand, now fluttering frantically, now at her eyes. Wright, beside her, was gesticulating like a semaphore, and not far away, Silas was straining his keen eyes to catch the last glimpse of his Sarah. Presently the docks faded into a vari-colored blur, and Bill pulled me away from the rail.

"Good-by, Cuba!" I said, waving my hand for the last time, as I turned.

"You're not crying?" he asked, teasingly.

"No," I dried my eyes a little defiantly, "but I have loved it so. Color and warmth and sunshine," I said, watching the soft pastel shades of the shore line, where Morro Castle stood, dazzling in the light, its stone feet set in blue waters, "and I hated to leave, somehow—"

"We'll go back," said he. "No, don't go below. Sarah will unpack and settle for you. I bribed the steward to give us these chairs. Sit down, darling, and let me tuck you up."

Obediently, I sat, and he sprawled his long length beside me, cupping his pipe in his hands, to shield the match flare from the wind.

"But," I argued, "it won't be like going back to 'The Palms.' I'll hate the nasty people who are going to buy it—do you suppose they'll buy Arthur, too?"

"Do you want him?" asked Bill.

I turned my hand so that the light fell on the big, new diamond on my finger. Bill had bought it in Havana, two days after the fire. It was my engagement ring, he said, and I had gotten up more than once in the last few nights to admire it by candle or moonlight. It was like a drop of dew. I told him that when he gave it to me, and he had added "on a white flower," and had kissed the finger he slipped it on.

"Want Arthur? I think not. He'd be the scandal of Green Hill, and perhaps he'd not thrive away from Guayabal—"

"Shall I buy 'The Palms'?" asked Bill, pushing his cap back from his forehead, so that the sun fell across his face.

"Are you crazy?" I demanded.

"Possibly."

He slipped his hand under the rug across my knees and took mine.

"What do you think?" he asked, gravely.

"I think you are," said I. "Such extravagance! Delusions of grandeur. But, anyway, I'd rather we built our own house—"

"So would I," said Bill, with satisfaction.

"Couldn't we add to the Green Hill house?" I asked, "an office for you—and more rooms? Do you mind?" I said. "So much of me is in that house. I don't want to forget those years—. And I was born there. My Mother came there as a bride—and I think Father will want us to live there always—unless," I added careful, "you have other plans, Doctor Denton?"

Bill laughed.

"No. When we get home, if your Father is willing, I'll turn you loose with painters and carpenters and decorators—as long as I may always smoke, even in the 'best parlour' and as long as you don't banish me and my bottles to the garage—for we'll have to have a garage, you know, and I've spoken to Silas about that little house in the garden. There's lots of room."

"Chintz," I said dreamily, "creton,—lots of it—and another fireplace—and oodles of bookshelves. Bill, may I dig in the garden next summer?"

"I shouldn't wonder," he answered cheerfully. "You're really remarkably strong—beyond my wildest hopes. I was amazed to see how soon you recovered from the effects of the fire—"

I looked at the little scars on my hands. They would go, eventually, I knew. Bill had said so. I was a little sorry.

"Were you?" I asked. "But I had a very good doctor, and wonderful medicine—"

He kissed me, to the horror of a passing elderly couple.

"Then," said I, straightening my cap, "you'll practise in Green Hill, after all? People will say you'll be burying yourself there—"

"Let 'em," said Bill. "I shall have time, at last, for all the things I want to do. Time, ambition and encouragement. We'll have a laboratory—away from the house, so your little nose won't be offended and turn up even more—"

"It doesn't," said I, one hand to the insulted feature.

"It does. Don't contradict. I love it!—A laboratory," he went on, "and I can work again on that cancer-cure—"

"Oh, Bill," I said, "isn't it wonderful? To think that perhaps you can bring a blessing to all the world, and I may help—a little—"

We were silent for a while—such a comfortable, understanding silence.

"Aunt Mavis," said Peter, appearing suddenly on deck, "Sarah has gone to bed!"

"Is she ill?" I asked, viewing the water, which was like blue glass.

"Not yet," said Peter gravely, "but she says she's taking no chances!"

"Poor Sarah!" I said, as Bill laughed. "Stay here with your uncle, Peterkins, and I'll go and see if I can do anything for her."

When I returned, I found my young charge and my husband hanging perilously over the rail, watching the antics of the flying-fish.

"Aren't they pretty?" I asked, joining them, "like tiny, colored aeroplanes."

We watched for some time in silence, and then Peter growing sleepy, for we had gotten up very early that morning, Bill tucked him into a rug in a chair, and we left him asleep almost instantly, to walk the deck until luncheon.

"I've got a scheme," said Bill. "Want to hear?"

"Uh-huh!" said I.

"New York first. Uncle John's, or, if you'd rather, a hotel. Your Dad will meet us. We'll ship Sarah on to Green Hill with Peter, to get the house in order and to look after the boy until the Goodriches return. When is it—ten days? And after you've gone on that shopping orgy you threatened me with, I'll have one of the men bring my car down from Green Hill and we'll motor. Would you like that?"

"Oh, Bill, where?" I asked, skipping a little, and collapsing up against his side as the boat rolled.

"Cape Cod, I thought, if you'd care about it. There's a dear old inn at Provincetown—I know you'd love it. We could go there, for a week or so—it's so early yet we'd have the place to ourselves. And then, early in May, back to Green Hill and settle for the summer. What do you think?"

"I think you're a darling!" I answered, brazenly, and with just the effect I had calculated. And after we had told each other several times that no one in the world could be as happy and as much in love as we were—and firmly believed it, too I—Bill said suddenly,

"I cabled Mother from Cuba—and wrote her. She will meet us in New York."

"For heaven's sake," said I, "do you think she'll like me?"

"Can't tell," said Bill, solemnly, "she's odd. But, after all, it isn't as if you were a stranger. You've corresponded with her, you know, and she made you some bed-socks. That's a bond."

"But that was Richard Warren's mother," I said, not quite convinced.

"She's mine too. Funny, isn't it? I think you've committed bigamy."

"Is she really little and blue-eyed and red-haired?" I asked, "or was that poetic license?"

"Honest truth. She's the prettiest thing in the world—except you. And I've written her all about it."

"Did she know that I didn't know you were you?" I asked somewhat incoherently. But he understood. That was one of the nice things about Bill—recently, anyway. He was the Person Who Understood.

He nodded.

"Yes, but she didn't know everything—not that we were married."

"Why?" I asked, curiously.

He smiled down at me, very big, very protective.

"Why, you see," said Bill gently, "she knew that I loved you. And she'd got to love you too. After all, she has a weakness for me, and an unbounded faith in my choice. And so—well, I didn't want to disappoint her—didn't want her to know how matters stood—that we weren't quite happy. So I waited. After a while, I grew afraid that she would have to be told after all—"

"Please, don't," I said hastily. "What did you write her?"

"Cabled first: 'Married Mavis. Meet us in New York at Uncle John's as soon as you can.' And then, I wrote and sent it by someone who was sailing sooner. She will break the trip from California in Chicago, she has cousins there. I hope the letter will catch her."

"I've never had a mother," I said, the least bit wistfully.

"You have one now," said Bill.

Cuba had long since disappeared. I closed my eyes for a second to keep the memory of all we had left clear and vivid. The Palms—the cane, as it had looked before the fire, emerald-green and graceful—the red soil of Guayabal and the long, white roads—the mountains in the distance—the palm-trees, straight as arrows, with their rustling tops—my own orchids, little lavender balloons—peacocks and ox-carts—naked brown babies creeping in the sun—sunlight on adobe and thatch—and Arthur, screaming raucously for his morning coffee.

No, I would never forget.

The trip passed like a dream. Peter found some American children to play with on the boat, and romped with them under the watchful eyes of a correct English nurse. Sarah, with Wiggles, kept to her cabin. And Bill and I, exchanging polite platitudes with the people at our table, were left very much to ourselves. And the voyage was calm, totally unlike the one we had taken so many months before.

It was on the boat that I read some of Richard Warren's new poems, part of the new volume. And, sitting in a sheltered corner of the deck, I watched my husband write the dedication across a white sheet of paper:

"To my wife."

"I'm very proud," said I, a little tremulously. "They are beautiful. Wright knew. He said they were bigger and finer than the others. But," I added, "after all, I fell in love with The Lyric Hour, Bill."

"But these," said Bill, "are your own."

And so they were.

"Now," he said, "suppose you show me what you were so careful to hide from me in Cuba?"

"Did Wright—?" I began indignantly, "What do you mean?"

"No, Wright didn't. But I guessed. Have I written for nothing all these years? I'm a sleuth when it comes to a fellow-craftsman. Besides, there's this—"

He drew a crumpled sheet from his inner pocket. I snatched at it.

"That old thing!" said I, with scorn. "Where did you find it?"

"I couldn't account for your inky little hands and your fits of abstraction," he answered, "solely by an explanation of your love for letter-writing and your dislike of me."

"Where did you find it, Creature?" I demanded again.

"In Wright's pocket. Old coat, on a chair—I was looking for a match."

"Doesn't sound plausible," said I, spreading out the blotted paper. Bill read with me, over my shoulder.

After Sunset

Carved in dull ebony, one somber row Of straight palms, etched in sudden, sharp relief, Against a molten-copper afterglow.... Oh, Hour of Enchantment, past belief, When down the garden paths the peacocks go, In plumed splendor and with stately tread. Across the shadowed valleys cool winds blow, From where the smoke-blue mountain rears its head. Beyond the world's rim, slips the ghost-wan Day, To draw Night's curtain close about her bed And set a star to light her to her rest, While Evening, shaking free her dusky hair, Lures every weary bird to seek its nest, And, kissing shut the tired eyes of care, Lulls Earth to peace upon her gentle breast.

"I didn't mean you to know," I said, as he took the verse away from me again and put it back in his pocket.

"But you told Wright," said he.

"That was different," I answered, firmly.

"Mad?"

"N-No!"

He slipped his arm around me.

"Mavis," he said very softly, "Mavis with the amber hair and the deep brown eyes. Mavis, child and poet and—all mine."

"You're not laughing?" I asked anxiously. "I mean, about the verses?"

"Laughing?" he raised his head from my hair. My cap had fallen off, and it blew in wildest confusion about my face and his. "I'm very far from laughing. I'm proud and happy. But," said he, with a change of tone, "to steal my thunder! You'll be dabbling in my pill-boxes yet! I suppose I may as well reconcile myself to being known as 'the husband of Mavis Denton.' Appalling outlook!"

"Is it?" I asked impishly.

"Well—in that sense at least. 'Husband of The Poetess.' It wounds my masculine pride."

"It shouldn't," said I, triumphantly, "if it ever happened—which, of course, it won't. But I will be quite content to be known as Richard Warren's wife—"

"You dear! But, of course, you have a better disposition than I have—"

"I haven't! I'm a petulant, snappish, mean—"

"You're the loveliest thing God ever made!"

And so on, ad infinitum.

The lazy, happy trip over, we sailed importantly into New York once more. Father and Uncle John were on the dock, two bronzed, happy men, and it was late that night before I got to sleep, in that same, old-fashioned room, my head in a perfect whirl. How we had talked and laughed, questioned and answered! From the twinkle in Uncle John's eyes, the tenderest, most quizzical twinkle, I half-suspected that he knew more than I had thought. He didn't say so, but if he didn't know—well, he had developed perfectly miraculous powers of teasing since I had left. But he was a dear. And it was so amazing to sit there and listen to him and Bill discuss the new volume, and to put my little, critical oar in now and then, while Father sat by, my hand in his, a look of the most wonderful content on his face. They had great difficulty to persuade me to go to bed. It was fascinating to linger in the smoky old room, with its rows and rows of books and its untidy, comfortable, masculine atmosphere. After I had three times refused to leave them, Bill unceremoniously picked me up and carried me up the stairs, kicking, and losing my slippers on the way.

Did I say that a wire was waiting for me when I reached Uncle John's?

"Love to You Both," it read. "Will be with You Wednesday at the Latest," and it was addressed to me, and signed, "Mother." Wednesday was two days off. I spent the intervening time in the outrageous shops, Bill stalking uneasily behind me, deferred to by the lithe, wonderfully coiffured, purring Goddesses who paraded mannequin after pretty mannequin before my startled eyes. I think, however, that Bill was a little more embarrassed than I.

"How they live," he said to me, seriously, on one occasion, "I don't see. I should think they'd spend most of their time in a pneumonia ward!"

We drove in the Park one afternoon. It was gay with Spring flowers and pretty girls. We had a hansom, because I had read about them in books. Coming back, through the falling dusk, with the lights of the city twinkling out, yellow and beckoning, and the great, massive bulk of the Plaza, illuminated like a birthday cake, just ahead, I suddenly conceived an affection for New York. But I didn't want to live there.

"Next time we come," said Bill, "in the Fall, perhaps, I want to take you to the theatres and to the gayest restaurants, and concerts. Why, you funny child, your eyes are as big as saucers!"

Our lean horse stumbled just then, and the hansom gave a seasick lurch. I felt as people mounting camels must feel. When the horse and I had somewhat recovered, I answered,

"I'd love it! And you'll teach me to dance—sometime?—May I?"

"Well," said Bill gravely, "I'm not much of a dancer—too big and all that. I always step on the dear things' feet. But you may, I think, and we'll take lessons together, if you like—"

"I'd adore it!" I said.

My husband drew me close—,

"You baby," he said. "Sometimes I think I have been selfish, tying you down to a cross old husband before you've had your good times—"

"Don't want any good times without you!" I said, obstinately.

"All right," said he. "We'll have them together. I'll renew my youth!"

"Don't be absurd! You're a mere infant!"

"Second childhood," he said, "you've been an elixir of youth to me; of life itself."

"You do say such nice things," I sighed. "That comes of being a poet!"

"Poet be hanged!" said Bill. "It comes of being in love—with—you—with you—"

That was a very nice drive. After all, the hansom has advantages. One can sit awfully close, and hold hands under the shiny, wooden apron.

Wednesday Mother came. I called her that right off. She was the dearest thing, with such curly red hair and eyes the color of Bill's, only a different shape. She was littler than I even, with hands and feet that were wholly ridiculous. Father was immediately enchanted with her. The four of us had a long talk, all one soft Spring day, interrupted by Uncle John, and by getting Peter and Sarah safely off to Green Hill. And then, while I was resting, she had her talk with her son, and came to me later, after I had gone to bed.

She curled up beside me in a wonderful blue negligée which made her look like a girl. And we talked—and talked.

"You're the nicest thing that Bill has given me," I said, happily, before she left, "and Bill's the nicest thing you could give me. You don't feel," I begged, "that I am taking him away from you—?"

"I love you," she answered, the laughter gone from her eyes, and her face very sweet to see, "for yourself—for Bill too, but most of all for yourself. I have wanted this since he first wrote me about you. I have prayed for it every night. You were so exactly the sort of a girl I wanted my boy to marry—"

"But," I said, "I was just a little, bed-ridden, useless creature then—"

"I knew that Bill would cure you," said Mother. "He always gets what he wants—"

"Doesn't he though?" I interrupted, proudly.

"And he wanted you!"

"I love him so," I whispered against the soft lace at her breast.

She put her arms very closely around me. I don't know why I cried.

And then, she talked to me. Just as my own Mother would have done—very gravely and tenderly for a long half-hour. When she left my room, I lay awake a long time, thinking about her and Bill, wondering if I could ever be to him all that she had said I would be. I was happy, a little frightened, and so grateful—so grateful.

CHAPTER XXII

The entire household saw us off on our motor trip. Uncle John beaming, Mrs. Cardigan and the maids waving hands and aprons, Mother smiling at us through a mist. She was coming to Green Hill as soon as we were settled, and help me with my first housekeeping. She had demurred at first when I begged her to: had said that "young people were better off alone." But I, and then Bill, when he found how much I really wanted her and finally Father had overridden all her objections. I didn't tell my menfolk that it was delightful to have someone to whom you could talk "Bill" by the hour, and who never grew tired of listening and encouraging and interrupting with paeans of praise of her own.

"What will she think of Mercedes?" I asked, as we rolled through the city, out toward the sunshine and open spaces.

"She'll like her," said Bill. "Mother's a judge, and she adopted Wright long ago."

"Those two wild children," I said, tolerantly.

The maddest cablegram had come to us just before we left. I was still convulsed by it:

Mercedes willing wedding in fall out of my head with happiness everything wonderful thank you a thousand times will see you very soon most marvelous girl in the world sends her love so do I.

"WRIGHT"

"I suppose they expect us to be surprised," I said. "Ostriches!"

"I always knew you were a matchmaker," said Bill, "you certainly staged the whole thing well."

"I had her out to amuse you, not Wright," said I, with partial truth.

"Oh, you did, did you? 'The best laid plans'—. Didn't you know that I haven't had eyes or ears for another woman since that first night you insulted me—"

"'Doctor Jumpy!'" said I, in delighted recollection.

"If it weren't that I have to drive the car—" said Bill.

"Perhaps, later, you could stop—" I suggested.

He stopped in the midst of the still considerable traffic. And then we sped on again, leaving a breathless, open-mouthed policeman struck into stone, behind us.

"Boston," said I to Bill, after we had been there for two hours, "is the darnedest place!"

"What's the matter with it? Cradle of American culture and everythin'."

"Reminds me of Havana," I said.

"Havana! You're insane!" Bill laid his fork down and gazed at me in amazement over the table in the Copley Plaza.

"Because it's so different," I said, "but the streets aren't much wider, so there. And after all, I think I could fall in love with the Common, and even Back Bay. There's something very solid about it all."

As we left the city and went on through the lovely Massachusetts country, I became more and more enamoured of my own unknown New England. And Bill, delightful companion, grew positively instructive. I learned a little history by the way, and we poked around and explored, in a very leisurely manner.

Wellesley, dignified and gracious, fascinated me. We went up to the college and spent a happy half-day there with one of the professors who had been a school friend of Bill's, no, our Mother's. But I couldn't help thinking of Mercedes! My bright, tropical bird, caged in a classroom, filing to chapel with hundreds of other girls, part of a crowd. I determined to go some day to Vassar and see her Waterloo for myself.

Pride's Crossing filled me with envy. I liked the beautifully kept lawns and the wonderful, garden-encircled houses. But I fell so deeply in love with Gloucester, even the fish, that Bill despaired of ever getting me away.

"Wait till you see Salem!" he said, "I'll probably have to tuck a door in the back-seat. You'll want one, I know. Jolliest doors in the world."

Magnolia, Salem, Plymouth, they went by like dreams. The big hotels where we stayed, the water, the Spring skies, the first reticent flowers, and finally, the funny little Cape towns: Hyannis Port, with its beaches and docks, its high Sunset Hill, where we watched the sun go down red and purple over the quiet bay, and where we saw the white sails of the fishing-crafts lift like wings against the morning sky—it was all so lovely, so new, so untarnished for me. I even loved the grey fog that swept in at night, like soft veils. And everywhere, serious or gay, always the perfect comrade, was Bill. I would lie awake in the mornings listening to him splash in the shower or whistling to himself in his room, not calling out good morning to him for five whole minutes, just happy at having him so near.

But Provincetown!

We came into it on a wonderful, clear morning, into that sleepy, little town, girdled with sand, on the edge of the wide, blue bay. Some of the cottages were open, even as early as it was in the season, and the little streets were bright with people. Our Inn was close down on the beach, a dark-red, rambling building, built half a century before, and beautifully remodelled for modern purposes. There were ships' lanterns and clocks within, a wide, glassed verandah on which one consumed quantities of delicious food and salt air, a ship's rope for the banister of the stairway which led, steeply, up to the second floor. Beyond the landing was my room, with three great windows fronting the bay. One could almost have flung a stone into the water from them.

The room was in rose-color, like my own room at home, and cool, dull green. Counter-pane, chair cushions, curtains, and dressing-table rioted with delightfully impossible roses, and the whole room smelled of salt and sun and the little lavender and rose-leaf bags I found in bureau-drawers and on closet-shelves. And my bath was big and white, a tiled, immaculate room, with cross-stitched towels and washrags, sweet-scented soaps and a dazzling array of bottles and toothbrush-mugs.

"How can I clean my razor on this?" demanded Bill, appearing in my room with a little towel held at arm's length. He surveyed the silken baskets of flowers designed upon it, with an air of deep concern.

"Oh, but you mustn't!" I said, snatching it from him in dismay.

"Oh, but I must!" he contradicted. "Look at this beard! We left Chatham so early this morning that I didn't get a moment to shave."

I rubbed my cheek against the square, firm chin.

"Ouch!"

"I told you so!"

"Come with me," I said, with dignity, and led him into his own bathroom, where I produced for him certain small towels, hanging under a legend "For your razor," and left him chuckling.

Bill's room was blue and yellow, and he complained that it was far too pretty for a man. We were still arguing about it when we went forth to survey the town. I popped in and out of shops like "an agitated rabbit," according to Bill, and bought armsful of bayberry candles, little delicate water-colors, and about six old, brass knockers; the last named purchases moving Bill to say that he supposed we would have to put one on the garage and another on the hen-coop.

The little inn was deserted save for us, the maids, an amiable and remarkable colored cook, and the adorable little lady who was our hostess. She had a tenderness for brides and grooms! Bill recalled her as having said so on the one occasion he had lunched with her, in Provincetown, in the "dark ages before I met you, Mavis," and I think she was happy to have us there. At all events, she never said so if she was not, and we stayed for two, wonderful weeks.

It was too early for swimming, of course, even for Bill's iron constitution, but we spent hours on the yellow sands, watching the boats, and the sunlight shifting over the water. Once a battleship steamed in and anchored not far away, and that evening there were Navy men in the porch-dining-room, quite beautiful in their uniforms, very splendid to look at, under the soft lights of the ships' lanterns, lingering over their coffee and cigars.

Bill scraped acquaintance with them, of course, with the consequence that we had tea one afternoon aboard the ship, with the most cordial and charming hosts in the world. I had not been there half an hour, palpitant with excitement, before every unmarried officer present had gotten me aside on one pretext or another and shown me the picture of "the prettiest girl in the world, Mrs. Denton!" And I will say for the Benedicts too, that their tiny cabins were filled with pictures of wives and babies. It was a very pleasant tea-hour, but Bill hurried me home long before I was tired of deck and guns, mascot—a frisky goat named "Narcissus," and the crowds of amusing sailor-boys in their infantile garb.

"Haven't had you to myself for a dog's age," he growled. "What did those men mean, carrying you off like that, with their 'Mrs. Denton, please come with me,' or 'Oh, Mrs. Denton, I've got something to show you.' Jackasses!"

"I thought them very nice," said I demurely, "especially that tall one with all the gold braid and the fascinating eyes."

"Fascinating eyes! Ye Gods! Never again, young woman!" and he hustled me out of the ship's boat, across the sand and into the house, lest, as he said, "The eyes-fellow should be standing with field glasses on the deck waiting to wave to you again!"

When we were in our rooms again, and I had called him to hook me up—we were dressing for dinner—he came in and, fumbling with those clever surgeon's fingers at the hooks of my frock, swept me and the frock suddenly and breathlessly into his arms.

"Don't keep me waiting too long, Mavis," he said, very low.

I put my arms around his neck and said something in his ear. And after a moment he kissed me, very gently, and let me go. It was ten minutes before I realized that he had gone without completing his task of lady's maid.

That night a full moon rose, golden and glamorous, over the bay. Bill and I walked out on the sands, quite late. I had on a wooly, white coat over my thin dress, and had changed to more sensible shoes. After all, I thought, it was worth a dozen Cubas, the keen, salt air, and the dear home country, just stirring under the breath of Spring.

"Happy?" asked Bill, as we sat down on some driftwood logs and watched the ever-widening golden wake of the moon-boat.

I leaned my head against his shoulder and nodded.

"You've never looked so beautiful," he said, "as tonight."

I drew his tall head down to mine,

"Do you think so?" I whispered, and then, very softly, "I love you, my husband—"

Together, in the full glory of the moonlight, we walked in silence back to the house. The lights gleamed above in my rose and green bedroom, and the door was open between—

CHAPTER XXIII

Green Hill June.

Has it seemed long to you, little Diary? Yet it is just a year since my first entry was made. I'm writing now in my room with the windows wide. Bill has just called up to me that my pink rose-bush is in flower. I must go down and see. I can hear Mother on the lawn talking to Mrs. Goodrich and Father and Peter. Or is it Wiggles? She employs almost the same tone toward both of them. And Sarah, a good ten years younger than last year, is out where the new cottage is soon to be. She has the builder with her, and I know that they are disagreeing. It will be a boon to Sarah to have the Simpson tribe—as much of it as are carpenters—working on her house for her. A pretty revenge!

"A new Doctor has come to Green Hill!" Just a year ago—Diary—and since then so much has happened. So much sorrow and happiness, loss and gain. It is hard to believe that it is I who write, Mavis of Green Hill.

The people have been so good since I came home: so glad for me. They tell me I look a different person—and why not, pray? For I am strong and well and most divinely happy, Diary, and it is pleasant to be able to write that down for you—after all the despondencies I did not spare your pages.

There's the new house to build—and this one to remodel in the Fall—and the garage already under way. It will be ready for Silas to putter about in by the time he comes North. And in August we are to expect Mercedes, which means Wright, of course. I have been able to persuade the Howells that Cuba is all very well, but Mercedes must be married from my house—and they have consented. I think that Mr. Howells is glad that it will be so.

The reviewers have been kind to Bill's new book. It was rushed through and appeared early this month. The secret has been let out, of course, and the poor villagers of Green Hill are mightily embarrassed at having harbored a famous poet for so long without knowing it. And they get the name quite confused. It's "Doctor Warren" half the time!

My dear old Dr. Mac has been to see us more than once. We've had wonderful evenings, in the late June dusk, a happy family, lacking nothing, content with just living and loving—

Mother and Dr. Mac are such friends. She actually flirts with him, in her Dresden China way, and he growls. But he likes it. I am sure he is half in love with her already—he couldn't very well help being.

Bill's here—his hand on my shoulder, smelling nicely of damp, new earth!

"Go away!"

"Why?"

"I'm writing!"

"So I see—but what, little wife?"

"The end of a story."

And under his eyes, Diary, I have turned back your pages and drawn a thick, black line through that pitiful entry made on my wedding day—drawn a thicker, blacker line through that sombre little word "Finis."

"Kiss me, William Denton!"

And now, with his kiss on my lips, I have turned back to what I have just written and am writing, letter by letter, with a steady hand and a high heart, between laughter and tears, two firm, exultant words:

THE BEGINNING