Chapter VIII: Part 8

"I've been thinking over what you told me, and I have concluded to change my tactics with regard to you," the old woman plunged in, without preamble. "Perhaps I've made a mistake in the past, keeping from you things you should have known. All I can say is, I acted in good faith, for your best."

Katherine smiled faintly. "Isn't that what parents always say when they punish?"

Madam Crewe raised her chin in her old supercilious manner, then quickly lowered it.

"I don't know. I've had no experience. I never punished. Perhaps that is where I made my mistake."

Again Katherine's lips curled slightly in a wry smile.

"You need have no regrets there, grandmother. You have nothing to make up to me on that score."

"You mean I have punished you?"

"Oh--very thoroughly."

"Curious! I can't see myself doing it."

"I can't see you _not_ doing it!"

Madam Crewe, in her turn, stared, surprised. Katherine was acting out of all character, in quite a new, unaccountable fashion.

"I suppose I must take your word for it," her grandmother admitted with an odd sigh. "Be kind enough not to interrupt. You know the story of the man I did not marry. Now you shall hear the story of the man I did marry.

"My father took me abroad after--after the Ballard fiasco. I did not care where I went, what I did. I was quite broken down. Quite, as Slawson would say, 'broken up.' Nothing made any difference to me. Everything was distasteful.

"One day, in London, my father brought a young man to me, introducing him as my future husband. That was all there was to it. I neither objected, nor approved. I had no mother. I did not understand.

"We were married almost immediately--my new lover was very eager. He urged haste. Almost immediately I discovered that my father had been duped by a cheap adventurer, a man without heart or conscience. A poor, weak wretch of profligate habits, a liar, a cheat. He had posed in society as a man of means, heir to a title. He was nothing of the sort. All those he had brought to stand sponsor for him, were hirelings paid to mislead us.

"For a long time I tried to hide the truth from my father. When, at last, he learned it, it killed him. He died in a fit of apoplexy, brought on by rage against the man who had gulled him.

"My fortune was large. My husband squandered a considerable part, before I had sense to take steps to save it. He was a spendthrift. He forged my name on checks, he stole from my purse. I presume you wonder why I did not rid myself of him? In those days divorces were not the casual things they are now. A woman divorced, was a woman disgraced. Moreover, there was the boy. For his sake I bore, forbore. For his sake, I fought to save my fortune. He was my one hope. He was to make up, by his perfect rightness, for all that was wrong in my universe. I suppose I spoiled him. Slawson says you can't spoil a good child. If that is so, my boy must have been bad from the beginning. This I know, he was always his father's child. He had none of me in him. As a baby, he was full of soft, coaxing ways. It was torture to see them gradually becoming smooth, calculating, treacherous.

"Sit still! I know he was your father--but he was my son _first_. I used to pray, night after night, that he might not live to follow in his father's footsteps. Useless. The taint was too strong.

"He married your mother precisely as your grandfather had married me. I would have prevented it, if I had known. It was all so carefully, secretly arranged that I did not know. Your mother was sacrificed, as I had been. Her fortune was swept away. She died when you were hardly more than a baby. I was glad when she died. She was out of it.

"Your father brought you to me to be cared for. The sight of you, in your little black ribbons, was a constant reproach. I was afraid to look into your eyes, for fear I should see in them what had killed your mother.

"One thing I determined, that you were not to be spoiled. I would bring you up as well as I could. I had failed with your father. I would try a different method with you. I repeat, I acted in good faith. I did my best.

"Your father died suddenly--no matter how--enough that 'twas disgracefully. Within a twelve-month, I was a widow. Behind my crepe I humbly thanked Almighty God.

"When I came to settle up my estate, I found myself practically impoverished. That is, everything had been so attached, encumbered, I could get no benefit from it. My income must be turned back to the estate, to save it. My only salvation--yours--was to cut myself off from all but a pittance, until every claim had been met, and I stood free and quit. That has been done. I owe no man anything. I have sacrificed much, but not my integrity, and not one acre, one security belonging to the property your great-grandfather left me, rescued from my husband. It is all intact. Your inheritance----"

Katherine was on her feet in an instant.

"Inheritance!" she blazed. "You have just told me what my inheritance is! Fraud, lies, treachery--everything that is base. What does money matter to a creature like me? I can never get away from what I am. As you say, 'the taint is too strong!' Hush! _I_ am speaking now. And I'm _going_ to speak, and you've _got_ to listen! For once in my life, I am going to have my say--I'm going to forget I am young and you are old, and I'm going to let you know what I have been feeling, thinking, _being_ all these years, when you've thought I was a tame thing you could order about, and scold and ridicule, to the top of your bent.

"I know, now, why I was a lonely, unloved child. I've always wondered, before, for I _tried_ to be good--even when I was too much of a baby to be anything else. I know, now, why you watched me out of the corners of your eyes, as if you were waiting for me to try to deceive you, in some way. You were waiting for my '_inheritance_' to crop out. How could I ever have been anything, but at my worst with you? How could I be clever, when you insisted I was dull? How could I be _myself_, when you condemned me, by your fears, to be my grandfather, and my father? What you waited for, came. Of course it would. I stole, I lied. I was a coward. 'The taint was too strong!'

"But let me tell you this, it needn't have been so. I could have been saved if, when I was a child---- Oh, I can't bear it! I can't bear it!"

She shrank together into a wretched heap on the floor, her head bowed on her knees.

Madam Crewe gazed at her, a strange shadow creeping over her face. As if to herself, she murmured, "That is what your grandfather used to plead--and your father. Whenever they were discomforted, they always said they couldn't bear it. So they didn't bear it. _I_--and others--had to bear it."

The sound of her voice, low as it was, brought Katherine to her feet. All the pent-in passion of her life, breaking loose now, beat mercilessly down upon the defenseless old woman before her. In some unaccountable way, the two seemed to have changed places. It was she who dominated, her grandmother who submitted.

The lamp burned low, sending out a rank odor that filled the room. The clock struck out three deep bell-notes.

Katherine, shuddering, sobbing, felt herself caught up in the whirlwind-strength of a new impulse. She turned her back on her grandmother. A moment, and the door of her own chamber shut her in.

Madam Crewe's head fell forward upon her breast.

* * * * *

The clock had just struck half-past five, when Martha groped her way downstairs.

She had her work "cut out for her," as she would have expressed it, and must start in promptly. She had just kindled a new fire in the kitchen-range, and was about to set out for the henhouse, and cow-barn, when a step on the porch brought her up standing.

In a second she had crossed the room, swung open the kitchen-door.

"Miss Katherine!" she exclaimed, in the breathless undertone of one brought face to face with a dread turned reality.

Katherine seemed to understand without need of explanation. She shook her head.

"No--grandmother's not sick. Grandmother is all right. But--I'm going away. I've left home. I'll never go back! Never! We had it out together last night, grandmother and I. _Last_ night, and _all_ night. I'll never cross that doorsill again, if I have to beg in the streets, or--starve."

Martha quietly closed the door, led Katherine to a chair, then set the water-kettle on the stove, without asking a question, saying a word.

"I've come straight to you, Mrs. Slawson," the girl continued breathlessly, "because you're my only friend in the place. The only one who knows anything about the kind of life I've led, and would understand."

"But, I _don't_ understand," Martha corrected her. "I thought--that is to say, I somehow or other, got the idea the two of youse was goin' to get along better, after this. I can't think how things could 'a' got to this pass when, the last I heard, everything looked so promisin'."

Katherine took her up quickly. "I don't know what you mean by _promising_. The day Mrs. Ronald was taken sick, I told grandmother about--about--what I'd done. You know--the pocket--with the letters. And she treated me like a dog. Oh, she was cruel. Sent me away, out of her sight, as if I'd been something hateful to her--which I am. She hasn't spoken to me since, until last night, except to give some order. I don't know how you can say you thought things 'looked promising.'"

Martha measured out two heaping tablespoonfuls of freshly-ground coffee into the percolator, and set it on the stove.

"I saw your gran'ma yesterday, Miss Katherine," she explained. "Her an' me had a long talk, an', from what she dropped, I got the impression she meant to turn over a new leaf two-wards you, if you'd give her the chance."

"Did she say she meant to?"

"No, not eggsackly '_say_.' But----"

"Well, then, I guess you were mistaken. Or, perhaps she _meant_ to try to do better by me, and, when the time came, she just couldn't, that's all. I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. But no matter what she _meant_, no matter what _I_ did, the end of it was, we had a terrible time and--I've come away for--good."

After an interval, during which Martha had quietly relieved Katherine of the bag she clutched, she set before her a cup of steaming, fragrant coffee.

Katherine shook her head. "I couldn't touch it. I'm not hungry."

"Drink it down, hungry or not!" commanded Martha authoritatively.

Katherine obeyed.

"You must have been at the house late, yesterday afternoon," she said, between her absent sips. "For, I wasn't there, and I'd been at home all day except for an hour or so toward evening, when I went to the Ronalds'. When I came in grandmother called me, and, now I come to think of it, she did seem milder, kinder. She told me to take my dinner and then, after dinner, to come to her. It always scares me when grandmother summons me to appear before her--like a pensioner, or a criminal. It's always been that way, ever since I can remember. The sight of her, sitting there, cold and distant as a marble image, always freezes me to ice. I can't help it. I know I'm a coward, but I can't help it.

"I couldn't eat my dinner, for thinking what she had to say, so, by the time I went up to her, I was all of a tremble inside, though I probably didn't show it.

"Then she told me--told me--about her life. About my grandfather--my father. If you knew what I've sprung from, Mrs. Slawson, you'd turn me out of your house."

"Rot!" said Martha, "askin' pardon for the liberty."

Katherine went on--"Think of being watched, day after day--always under suspicion.--Think of having some one always being in fear and trembling because the time'll surely come when you'll show what you've sprung from. And, of course, it comes. I did the things my grandfather and my father had done before me. That was why, when I told her about the pocket, she sent me away from her. The thing she had dreaded, had happened."

"It always does," said Martha.

"So that's what I am," the girl went on shudderingly, "a coward, and a liar, and a thief. The child, and the grandchild, of cowards, thieves, liars. There's no hope for me! I can never be anything else."

Martha's hand upon her shoulder shook her, none too gently.

"Say, stop that nonsense, Miss Katherine. Stop it right now, before you say another word. There ain't any truth in it, to begin with, an' _I_ say it's wicked to _think_ such things. Just you answer me a couple o' questions, will you?"

Martha's unaccustomed severity startled Katherine out of her hysteria. She nodded acquiescence.

"Why did you tell me, firstoff, when you'd took the pocket?"

"Because I loathed myself so. I couldn't bear it alone."

"Why did you clap the name o' thief to yourself? Are you proud o' it?"

"It's the truth. I have to tell the truth!"

"Why have you?"

"Because it's _right_ to."

"Then, on your own say-so, you ain't any o' those things you said. Don't you see you ain't? A thief don't hate what he does, so he's afraid to be alone with himself. A liar don't _have_ to stick to the truth, does he? A coward won't stand up, an' face the music, 'cause it's _right_ to--not so you'd notice it, he won't. All this hangin' on to your antsisters' shirt-tails an' apern-strings, for good, or for bad, makes me sick on my back. I'm tired seein' crooked sticks tryin' to pull glory down on themselves off'n what they call their Family-trees. Don't you fool yourself. It's every man for himself these days--_thank God_! It don't folla you're what your gran'pa is, any more'n your gran'ma. You got a mind o' your own, an' a conscience o' your own, an' if you did, in a way o' speakin', lose your grip on yourself, an' done what tempted you--to do it oncet, ain't to say you'll ever do it again. It's just the very reason why you _won't_ ever do it again!"

Katherine shook her head. "That may be true. All I can say is, it doesn't seem true to me now. Anyway, I can't change my feeling about grandmother. I want never to see her again. She hates me and--I----"

"Now, easy! Go easy, Miss Katherine. What makes you think the ol' lady hates you?"

"Everything she has ever done. She's never kissed me in her life, that I can remember."

"Kissin' ain't all there is to lovin'. What did your gran'ma want to save her money for? What did she scrimp an' screw for, after bein' used to live in the lap o' lucksherry all her days----? I'm a ignorant woman, but it seems to me, she could 'a' paid up all was owin', and lived off'n her capital, an' said to herself: 'Hooray! A short life, an' a merry one! Let the grandchild I hate, look out for herself. What do _I_ care?'"

"Perhaps she don't mind saving and denying herself, any more. She's got used to it," suggested Katherine. "Maybe she likes it."

"I wouldn't be too sure," Martha admonished, "Think it over."

"I have thought it over--and over and over. Nothing will change me. I'll not go back, Mrs. Slawson."

"Where are you goin'?"

"To Boston."

"What for, to Boston?"

"First, to tell Dr. Ballard just what and who I am. Grandmother thought it was _lying_ for me to hold back that story, when I should have made a clean breast of it, at once. She acts as if she had to protect Dr. Ballard against me. She acts as if _he_ is the one who's dear to her and I'm the stranger. Well, I'll show her! I'd never marry him now, if--if----"

"An', after you got through throwin' down Dr. Ballard?"

"I'll go somewhere else. To another town--and earn my living."

"Doin' what?"

"I don't know yet. But the way will open."

"You bet it will. Good an' big, the way'll open," Martha echoed her words with scoffing emphasis. "It'll make you dizzy lookin' at it gapin' at you!"

Katherine's pale cheeks flushed. "I'm not a fool, Mrs. Slawson. There are some things I can do, as it is. I can learn to do more."

"Certaintly. There's lots o' lovely things you can do in this world--_if you don't charge anythin' for'm_."

Katherine rose.

"I came to you, Mrs. Slawson, because I felt you were my friend."

"So I am."

"I came to you because I knew what you'd done for the Hinckley girl. I want you to do the same for me. There's a train leaves Burbank Junction for Boston at eleven-thirty-three. Will you take me over there in your motor?"

"No, ma'am!"

Katherine stared at her, out of astonished eyes.

"No, ma'am!" repeated Martha. "When I took Ellen Hinckley to Burbank, it was outa harm's way. If I took _you_ it'd be into it. Ellen Hinckley was a poor, weak sister, which runnin' away was all there was _for_ her. _You_ are strong as they make'm, an' stayin' 's all there is for you. Ellen owed it to herself to leave her mother. You owe it to yourself to stand by yours."

"Then I'll go to Mr. Ronald. He'll take me--when I tell him."

"Don't you believe it. An' you won't tell'm either, Miss Katherine. You're too proud, an' he's too _fair_. It wouldn't take him a minute to tell you, 'Stay by the poor little ol' lady, till she's no need o' you no more, which it won't be long, now, anyhow.' It wouldn't take'm a minute to tell you that, Miss Katherine--not for Madam Crewe's sake--but for yours."

"I'll never go back," the girl reiterated determinedly. "Whatever I do, I'll never go back. If you won't take me to Burbank, I'll wait here at the station, for the trolley. There'll be another train out sometime. I'll get to Boston somehow."

"Miss Katherine," Martha pleaded, but the girl stopped her with an impatient gesture.

"It's no use, Mrs. Slawson. I feel as if there were nothing but ugliness and horror in all the world. It's come out--even in _you_!"

Martha turned her face away quickly, as if she had been struck.

"I've not gone back on you, Miss Katherine. Take my word for it, till you can see for yourself what I say's true. You think everything's ugly now. That's because you got knocked, same as if it was, flat on your back. You're just bowled clean over. You're lookin' at things upside down. But let me tell you somethin'--there's been good in all the knocks ever I got in my life, if I had the sense to see."

"I don't believe it!" said Katherine passionately.

Martha smiled. "Certaintly you don't, at the present moment. But you will, in the course o' time. Why, the hardest knock a party'd land you, right between the eyes, you'd see _stars_."

Katherine turned quickly away, stooped to pick up her bag, and without another word, passed to the door.

"Say, Miss Katherine," called Martha, "I want to tell you somethin'. Now, listen! Dr. Ballard, he tol' me oncet----" she was talking to empty air.

Katherine had gone.

Martha followed at far as the doorstep, to look after the girlish figure marching so resolutely out into the cold gray of the early autumn morning. She stood watching it, until it passed out of sight, around the bend of the road that led to the village.

Then, with all her day's work still before her, Martha Slawson deliberately sat down to think.

"Between the two o' them, they've made a mess of it, for fair," she told herself. "But I'll give the ol' lady this credit, I do b'lieve she started in _wantin'_ to do the right thing. The trouble with her is, she waited too long, an' in the meantime, Miss Katherine's been bottlin' in her steam, an' gettin' bitterer an' bitterer, till all it took was the first word from the little Madam, to bust her b'iler, an' send the pieces flyin'. Miss Katherine says they talked all night. I bet 'twas her done the talkin'. I can jus' see her takin' the bit between her teeth, an' lettin' rip, for all she was worth, same's Sam wipin' up the floor with Mrs. Peckett, which he'd never raised his hand to a soul in his life before, an' prob'ly never will again. Just for oncet the both of'm, him an' her, had their fling, more power to'm! In the meantime, the fat's in the fire. If I'd 'a' had the book-learnin' I'd oughta, an' not been the ignorant woman I am, I'd 'a' been able to speak the wise word to Miss Katherine, that would 'a' cooled her off, an' ca'med her down, till she'd have her reason back, an' could see the right an' wrong of it for herself. But I haven't, an' she ain't, an' while I'm sittin' here thinkin' about it, she's makin' tracks for Boston, an' Dr. Ballard. Bein' a man, he'll welcome her with open arms. Bein' a girl, she'll forget all about her good intentions to throw'm down, the minute she claps eyes on'm. An' then, when it's all over, an' Time has fanned the first flush off'n 'm, he'll get to thinkin' how she ain't the woman he thought her, because she left her gran'ma in the lurch, which he tol' me with his own lips he'd never ask her do it. In fac', he wouldn't respec' her if she did do it, an' the poor ol' lady so sick, 'n' old, 'n' lonesome. An', with one like Dr. Ballard, a girl'd want to think twice before she'd risk lowerin' herself, to do what he couldn't respec'. No, Dr. Ballard mustn't know Miss Katherine's left her gran'ma alone. He mustn't know it, even if she _does_ it! But how is he goin' not to know it, I should like to know?"

For a few moments Martha painfully pondered the problem, without any sign of untangling its knotted thread. Then suddenly she rose and, going to the foot of the stairway, called up to Sam:

"Say, Sam--come here a minute, will you? I wisht you'd wake up Cora, an' tell her get busy fixin' the breakfast. An' when you come down, set Sammy feedin' the hens, an' turnin' the cow out. I ain't able to do my chores, because I got suddently called away. I prob'ly won't be back till dinnertime, or maybe night. Don't wait for me, an' don't be uneasy. I'll tell you about it later."

She caught up her coat and hat, hanging on a hook on the entry closet door, and put them on while she was making her way across the grounds, in the direction of the big house.

She knew, before she crossed the kitchen doorsill, that Mr. Ronald would not be up at this hour of the morning; nevertheless, she got Tyrrell to take a message for her to his door.

"Tell'm I got somethin' very important I wanta say. Ask'm will he let me telefoam it up to'm."

Mr. Frank sent down word, "Certainly!"

"I got a favor to ask of you, sir," Martha told him without reserve.

"Let's hear it."

"Somethin' 's happened out to ol' lady Crewe's. Miss Katherine, she come to me just now, all upset an' wild-like. Las' night, when I see the little Madam, she showed as plain as could be, she's not long for this world, an' by now--what with the shock she's got--she's prob'ly goin' fast. Will you telefoam Dr. Ballard, an' ask'm to come to her right off? He told me, before he left, if any of you folks, here, or _her'd_ reely need'm, I was to let'm know, an' he'd come, if it took a leg."

"But, Martha," objected Mr. Frank, "that's the point. If we _really need_ him. Are you sure the case is so urgent? Recollect, Dr. Ballard is a busy man. His time is worth more than money. Much more. There isn't one chance in a thousand, that he could leave to come here, on the spur of the moment, even if I asked him."

"He'd come," said Martha confidently.

"And I don't want to ask him--I'd have no right to do it, unless the need is extreme. Is the need extreme? Are you sure of it?"

Martha hesitated but a moment. "Yes, sir. I'm sure," she answered.

"Then I understand you to say that I am to call up Dr. Ballard. I am to tell him that Madam Crewe is in a critical condition. I am to ask him to come on at once. It is a matter of life or death. That is the message, Martha?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're positive? Life or death?"

"Life--_an'_ death," repeated Martha distinctly.

"Then call up Central, and ask for Long Distance. When you get it, give me the wire. Shall you wait for the answer?"

"No, sir. I'm goin' straight to the little ol' lady's now. She needs me, an'--I _know_ the doctor'll come."

*CHAPTER XVII*

The "little ol' lady's" need of her was as distinct in Martha's consciousness, as if it had come to her in the form of a verbal message, through ordinary physical channels.

Its insistent reiteration, since the night before, had drowned out the impression of Mrs. Peckett's mischievous tongue, even Katherine's poignant reproaches. Everything else fell into the background before that one soundless cry of appeal.

For once in her life Martha hurried.

Eunice Youngs met her at the kitchen-porch, showing a scared face.

"Oh, Mrs. Slawson," she drawled, with something in her voice and manner almost resembling animation, "oh, Mrs. Slawson, if ever I was glad to see anybody!"

"What's the trouble?"

"I d'know. When I went up to Miss Katherine's room about an hour ago, with Madam's coffee, I knocked an' knocked, an' no one answered. Then, I went to Madam's door, an' knocked an' knocked, an' no one answered. But the sitting-room door was open, so I peeked in, an'----"

"Well?" Martha's impatience spurred her on.

"Madam was sitting up in her chair, just like always, only she--looked like she was dead."

Before the words were fairly out, Martha had brushed Eunice aside, and was halfway up the back stairs. In the moment it took her to cover the distance between them and the sitting-room, her thoughts ran riot, but one sentence kept repeating itself unconsciously:

"Poor Miss Katherine! Poor Miss Katherine!"

Automatically she tapped on the sitting-room door, pushed it open, and entered.

Madam Crewe was sitting in her chair, as Eunice had described her, but as Martha came forward, the drooping head lifted ever so slightly, the heavy eyes gave out a faint spark.

Without a word Martha poured into a glass one of Dr. Ballard's stimulants, in the use of which she had been well instructed. She held the glass to Madam Crewe's lips, supporting her while she drank, then waiting until the lips showed a tinge of color.

"Good--morning! Why don't--you--ask--me, how I--slept?"

Martha caught the labored words with difficulty. She caught, what was even more difficult, the intention to preserve the old tone of caustic raillery.

"I never do," she answered imperturbably, playing up with gallant spirit, to the required pace. "I never do. Mornin's, when folks ask you how you slep', mostly it's just for the chance to let you know how _they didn't_."

"Kath--er--ine?"

"I see her before I come in here. She's kinda played out, this mornin'. I guess we better let her rest a while, hadn't we?"

Madam Crewe's eyes conveyed assent.

Chatting lightly on, ignoring any reason for not doing so, Martha undressed the rigid little body, and laid it tenderly in bed. Somehow, she managed to prepare a breakfast which the Madam patiently suffered herself to be fed, though Martha knew it was a hardship.

"It'd astonish you, how she's fightin'," Mrs. Slawson told Miss Claire, whom Mr. Ronald brought out in the course of the early forenoon to make inquiries. "It'd astonish you. She _won't_ give in. She falls asleep, in spite of herself, but after a minute, there she is awake again, for all the world as if the spirit in her wouldn't let itself be downed. I never see anybody _livin'_ as fierce as her. She's doin' it, for all she's worth. Every minute, full up, begrutchin' the time she has to lose for rest."

"You were right about Dr. Ballard, Martha," Francis Ronald admitted. "He is coming. I am going to Burbank to meet him and bring him back with me, directly I have taken my wife home."

Martha nodded. "I knew he'd do it. He's the kind you couldn't slip up on. Same's yourself, sir."

When Martha returned to her patient, Madam Crewe had to be told where she had been, had to be shown the flowers Mrs. Ronald had brought, informed of the messages she had left.

Then--"Where's Katherine?"

The question kept repeating itself, as if in spite of her.

"Comin' presently," Martha shied the point dexterously.

"I tried--last night ... 'square deal'---- Failed."

"Oh, no! you didn't fail. You mustn't be in too much of a hurry. Miss Katherine'll see what you meant, give her a chance to get the right squint at it. You got to be pationate with childern. Time goes slow for them. Miss Katherine's a _good_ child!"

Madam Crewe raised her eyes, and fixed them full on Martha. "Slawson--you're a _good_ woman."

* * * * *

It seemed to Katherine Crewe, trudging along the dreary stretch of road on her way to the station, that there was no use struggling any longer in a world where the combined forces were so obviously, so uncompromisingly against her. Her one hope had been Mrs. Slawson. Mrs. Slawson had failed her.

As she foresaw it, there was nothing in her meeting with Dr. Ballard to promise better things. She had told him, once and for all, she would never marry him. He had taken her at her word, and gone away. What she had to tell him now, would only constitute another reason for her to hold to her decision--another ground for him to accept it with easy resignation.

Filed past, in slow procession through her brain, all the haunting years, through which she had tried, and tried, and had had nothing but disappointment, frustration, for her pains.

Dr. Ballard had assured her one could overmaster conditions.

Not when the blood of weaklings ran in one's veins.

Everything he or Mrs. Slawson had told her, that had seemed convincing at the time, was negatived now, by her knowledge of what she was. Now she knew why she had never been able to compel life to give her what she demanded. It was because she was one of the "unfit," predestined, by two generations of degenerates, not to survive. She could see nothing but animus, as her grandmother's motive for telling her. The accumulated, smoldering resentment of years, gathering force through this crowning act of injustice, flamed up fiercely until it blinded her.

When, at last, she reached the station, it was only to find she had missed the car she should have taken. She must wait an hour for another.

She almost smiled. The little incident was so of a piece with the rest of her experience.

As she composed herself to sit out the hour, in the chill desolateness of the deserted waiting-room, her thoughts still harried her, but now she felt them less keenly. It was as if her wits were wrapped in cotton.

At a touch on her shoulder, she started up, trembling, dazed. She had not seen the station-master, until he actually stood before her.

"Did you want to take the next trolley to Burbank?"

"Yes," she answered, wondering why her eyes were so heavy, her head so dull.

"Well, it'll be along in five minutes, now. I _thought_ you wanted to take the last one, but you didn't stir, and come to find out, you were asleep. I hated to rouse you now, only I thought, maybe, I'd ought to."

She had slept two hours.

Speeding through the country, her head became clearer. Not for that were her thoughts less harassing. Another element had entered in, to make them more so,--indecision. Little by little, bit by bit, came back certain stray fragments of sentences she dimly recollected having heard Mrs. Slawson pronounce. Sentences that, at the time, in her benumbed state, had left her cold, making no conscious impression. She remembered Martha's face, when first she saw her at the porch door. What had she been afraid of? Martha Slawson, who was never afraid of anything? The answer that had sprung to her own lips, was given without deliberation. It had just naturally come in response to Mrs. Slawson's look of dread. She had replied that her grandmother was "all right." How had she known her grandmother was all right? She had not stopped to inform herself, before she left the house. She had gone without a word, without a look.

The last time she and her grandmother had come to grief, trying to "understand each other," the old woman had borne a brave front until the ordeal was over, then had quietly fainted away. What if she had done the same thing now?--when no one was there to come to the rescue.

* * * * *

--"By your own say-so you ain't any of those things.--You got a mind o' your own an' a conscience o' your own.... You're strong as they make'm.... This hangin' on your antsisters, for good or for bad, makes me sick.... Don't you fool yourself: It's every man for himself, these days, thank God! ... Somethin' beautiful in all your blows, if you only had sense to see. The hardest knock you ever got, you'd see _stars_...."

* * * * *

Once, when she was a child, Katherine had been given a toy which, more than all of her others, had filled her with delight and wonderment.

It was a large, circular box, set on a pedestal, revolving on a pin. Perpendicular slits were cut, at regular intervals, all around its lower wall, and within were coiled long, colored picture-scrolls, facing outward. When the box, or drum, revolved, the scene depicted suddenly sprang into motion.

She could not have followed, had she tried, the subtle, involuted train of association that led her back to her experience with the long disremembered plaything. But, even as she thought of it, she saw herself, as she had so often sat, a disappointed, bewildered child, staring at the stupid, tiresome lengths of crude, static prints, which her inexperienced hand had not learned to adjust, so they would become significant, entertaining.

Like a sudden flash of light, came the suggestion that, up to this, she had sat just so, regarding life. Seeing it in the flat, finding it dull, stale, unprofitable. What if it were possible to learn the trick of adjustment! What if it were possible to discover the dynamic pivot, by which the great revolution would take place, the revolution that would make life interesting, give it meaning? Had any one ever found either?

Instantly, she thought of two persons--the two who, more than any others she had ever known, had got the most good pleasure out of life. Daniel Ballard--Martha Slawson. Two very different personalities, in widely different situations, yet with the same invincible courage, the same curious capacity for inspiring others with their own faith in all that is best. These two had the same wide vision, the same high purpose. They both had looked on life, and found it good.

Long before her car reached Burbank, Katherine had determined to go home.

She heard, with composure, the Junction "starter's" announcement, that her car had gone out three minutes before. She must wait an hour, if she wanted to take the next. In her present mood, she was glad of the opportunity to try her new-found strength. Out of her depths of depression she had leaped in one miraculous moment, to a height of exaltation such as she had never known before. She was ready to fight the world, in order to prove she could come out conqueror.

"No, ma'am, there ain't any other way of getting back, excepting the trolley, unless you take an automobile. But I tell you what! The Boston train'll be along presently. There'll be rigs here then, and motors come to meet it, and probably some of them'll be going back your way. They'd give you a lift, I dare say, if you're in a great hurry and asked them."

Katherine considered. To sit in the station, tamely waiting for things to come her way, was out of all line with her present impulse. She could not endure inaction. She had a flagellant's ecstatic eagerness to begin her own castigation. She would _walk_.

The starter did not confide to her his private opinion of her plan, when she indicated what she proposed to do by asking directions as to the way.

"There's a goodish stretch out of here, where the walking's easy. But you'd have to get beyond that, before you'd be likely to be come up with, by a rig, or a car, going your way. You see, the trolley-line and the motors both use the road. Foot passengers ain't allowed to, where there's so much traveling. It'd be dangerous. But once you get off the main beat, going in the direction of your town, all you have to do is stick to the road and you'll _get there_!"

Looking after her, as she started off gallantly enough, his skepticism found vent in a long, low whistle and a muttered--"You'll get there--_if_ you have luck."

But Katherine felt no doubt of herself. It was only after she had covered "the goodish stretch," and come out on the road where the walking was "heavy," that her elation dropped a trifle, her bag began to prove itself subject to the law of gravitation. Still she plodded on resolutely.

She had no hope that she would be able to outstrip the trolley, but at least she was not meekly submitting to overmastering forces, as she had done in the past. And if nothing better offered, she would take the trolley, when it should come along, and so accomplish her purpose in the end.

She did not know how far she had walked, when her ears caught the sound of an approaching automobile.

The way, at that point, was narrow, and for a moment she hesitated. Would it be better to step up on the bank, or proceed, as she was doing, trusting to the chauffeur to guide and control his car so as not to run her down? She chose the first course, glad that she had done so, when, looking back the way she had come, she saw what an immense machine it was bearing down upon her. Then all at once, her heart gave a leap.

It was the Ronalds' car.

A minute, and the chauffeur had seen, recognized her. The car came to a halt.

The next thing she knew, Francis Ronald had sprung from the limousine, taken her bag, given it to his driver, handed her into the car, and, himself, taken his place beside his man. It was only then, that she realized he had closed the door upon her, and a companion. A man. She looked up. The car started into motion. She was in Daniel Ballard's arms, being held very close.

She tried to wrench herself away.

"No, no!" she panted. "You don't understand! You don't know!"

Recapturing the hand she had freed, he pressed it to his lips, smiling at her reassuringly.

"I know everything. It's all right. What do you think I care?"

"But you _don't_ know," she insisted. "I was coming to tell you. I was on my way. And then I remembered how old she is, and weak and forlorn and--I am going back to her--to comfort her. But I had been on my way to you--to tell you--tell you what I am--what I've done. I'm----"

"Hush!" commanded Dr. Ballard gently. "Be still, and you'll find it's all right. _She_ made it right, before I left to go to Boston. She told me everything. What you had told her, what, I suppose, she has told you. Everything. She asked me to wait until you had found yourself. She said, you were an idealist--'Up in the clouds,' she put it. She feared you would draw a storm down on yourself and me, if you were trusted with your own life, at this juncture. She begged me not to press on you any more problems than you already had. She wanted you to profit by her mistakes, to have what she had missed--and to have it untarnished by regrets. It was for that she tested you. It was for that she denied herself necessaries, that, in the end, you might have plenty. She said, she must make sure you did not set money above love, as she, as--_others_ had done before you. Talk about idealists! She managed it all very clumsily, but, at least, she tried to do right by you, according to her lights. I told her, 'twas wrong to tamper with human hearts. I told her, she had no right to try to direct human destinies. But I'd better have held my tongue. The mischief was already done. She had tampered. She had _tried_.... She was always hoping you would come to see she had acted in good faith. You see it now, don't you, sweetheart? You'll show her you do, when we get _home_, won't you--if it's not too late?"

"Too late?"

The syllables rang out with cruel sharpness.

"You don't know, then, that she is--dying?"

Katherine gave him a terrified look.

"Oh, let us go fast--_fast_! Dan--_darling_--don't let it be too late!"

It was nearing sunset when the car drove into Crewesmere.

Martha heard it, but the sound carried no comfort to her heart. At best, it could only mean that Dr. Ballard had arrived and--Dr. Ballard was not Katherine! Katherine for whom her grandmother had been vainly calling all through the day.

"She'll be here presently," Martha had answered. "She's gone out." "She'll come in pretty soon, now." "I expect her any minute."

Once, the little old woman had made a mighty effort, gathered her forces together, and brought out the question,

"Has she left me? Gone to Boston?"

Martha could not have escaped her searching eyes, if she had tried. She met them squarely, and told her untruth as convincingly as if it had been the truth. In the depths of her soul, she "had the faith to believe" it was the truth. "Only, I'm bound to confess, it don't look like it."

"Leave you? Gone to Boston? Not on your life. Miss Katherine's a _good_ child. Even if she'd got kinda bewizzled-like, an' started off, meanin' to go, she wouldn't 'a' went. She'd turn back, an' come home. You can take it from me! I know Miss Katherine."

But the hands of the clock had slipped around, and Katherine had not come home.

Dr. Driggs dropped in, like the rest of the neighbors, to "inquire." He did not venture inside the sick-room, but when Martha described the situation, Madam Crewe's hungry longing to keep up until she could see her grandchild, he left something to be administered that, he thought, "might help along, some, maybe."

It did.

After she had taken it, the wonderful little soul revived amazingly. She beckoned Martha to her with a look, whispering out the difficult syllables, as if on her last breath--

"If Katherine shouldn't come----"

"She will come, never fear," Martha reassured her.

"I've left you--a little keepsake. A thousand dollars.... It's down ... black-and-white ... in letter to Katherine. Promise ... take some, and go ... with your Sam ... to New York ... alone ... honeymoon."

"Certaintly," said Martha, humoring her soothingly, without the slightest suspicion she was listening to anything but the babbling of aged weakness.

"Certaintly, ma'am. An' thank you kindly for the thought. Sam an' me'll have the time of our lives."

"See ... you do!" ordered the little Madam.

The western sky was a blaze of glory when she spoke again.

"I'll meet you ... dearest Daniel ... when the sun goes down!"

"What, ma'am?" inquired Martha, instantly on the alert.

The lowered lids lifted. The lapsing mind leaped back to consciousness.

"Katherine!"

"She'll be here right off. She's on her way!"

An automobile drove up before the house.

"Dr. Ballard's come all the way from Boston to see you, ma'am," Martha said.

A moment, and the door opened. A girlish figure flew across the room.

"Grandmother! Dear, _dear_ grandmother!"

Katherine knelt by the bedside, gathering up the little body in her loving arms.

Dr. Ballard bent to lift the tiny wrist.

There was a gentle sigh, a flicker of the eyelids. Madam Crewe looked up contentedly, over Katherine's bowed head, and her eyes fixed themselves full on Martha.

The look said, "Slawson, you're a good woman!"

THE END