Came“— by Anne
The full effulgence of cloudless midsummer enveloped the place. The
lawns, bright and soft, sloped for half a mile to the sweetbrier hedge.
Among them wound the drive, now and again crossing the stone bridges of
the small, curving lake which gave the estate its affected
name—Lakeholm. To the left of the house a coppice of bronze beeches
shone with dark lustre; clumps of rhododendrons enlivened the green
with splashes of color. Lombardy poplars, with their gibbetlike
erectness, bordered the roads and intersected them with mathematical
shadows; here and there rose a feathery elm or a maple of wide-branched
beauty. To the right, a shallow fall of terraces led to the Italian
garden, Mrs. Dinsmore's chief pride, now a glory of matched and
patterned color and a dazzle of spray from marble basins. Beyond all
the careful, exotic beauty of the place, the wide valley dipped away,
alternate meadow and grove, until it met the silvery shiver of willows
marking the course of the river. Beyond that again, the hills, solemn
in unbroken green, rose to cloud-touched heights.
Before the house Brockton's new automobile waited. He himself leaned
against a stone pillar of the piazza, facing his hostess, who sat on
the edge of a chair in the tense attitude of protest against delay. She
had scarcely recovered from her waking crossness yet, and found herself
more irritated than amused at the eccentricities of her guest. She was
wondering with unusual asperity why a man with such lack-lustre blue
eyes dared to wear a tie of such brilliant contrast. He interrupted her
“Miss Harned seems mighty stand-offish these days.”
“Millicent is a little difficult,” admitted Millicent's cousin.
“What do you suppose it is? She seemed all smooth enough in New York
last winter, and even in the spring after—But now—” He paused again
without finishing his sentence. “And I had counted on your influence to
make her more approachable.”
“Oh, Millicent is having a struggle with her better nature, that is
all,” laughed Mrs. Dinsmore. “It's hard living with her during the
process, but she's adorable once her noble impulses have been
vanquished and she's comfortably like the rest of the world again.”
“I don't know what you mean,” said the downright Mr. Brockton.
“No?” Mrs. Dinsmore was sure that the impertinence of her
monosyllable would be lost upon her elderly protege. “I'll make it
clear to you, if I can. Millicent, you know, has nothing—”
“With that figure and that face?” interrupted Brockton, with gallant
“I was speaking in your terms, Mr. Brockton,” said the lady, with
suave hauteur. “Of course all of us count my cousin's charm and
accomplishments, though we do not inventory them as possessions far
above rubies. But in the valuation of the 'change she has nothing. Oh,
she may manage to extract five or six hundred a year from some
investments of my uncle, and she has the old Harned place in New
Hampshire. That might bring in as much as seven hundred dollars if the
abandoned farm-fever were still on—”
“By ginger!” boasted Brockton, whose expletives lacked ton,
“it's more than I had when I started.”
“So I remember your saying before. But I fear that my cousin is not
a financial genius. What I meant by her struggles with her better
nature is that she sometimes tries to thwart us when we want to make
things easy for her. Her better nature had a fearful tussle with her
common sense about five years ago, when Aunt Jessie asked her to go
abroad; and it nearly overcame her frivolity and her vanity last winter
when I met her at the dock and insisted upon having her spend the
winter with me, and our second cousin, Alicia Broome, offered to be
responsible for her wardrobe. But, thanks be,” she added, laughing,
“the world, the flesh, and the devil won. So cheer up, Mr. Brockton. It
may happen again.”
“Oh, I'm not hopeless by any manner of means. I want her pretty
badly, and I'm used to getting what I want. I told her, out and out,
when she turned me down, back there in May, that if she were a young
girl I wouldn't urge her any more, after what she said about her
feelings. But she wasn't, and I thought she could look at a proposition
from a plain business point of view.”
“You told her that? You mentioned to her that she was no longer a
young girl?” Mrs. Dinsmore's laugh rippled delightedly on the air.
“I did. Oh, I'm used to bargaining,” he rejoined, proudly. “I always
could make the other fellow see what he'd lose by refusing my offers.
And I got her to take the matter under consideration. I heard somewhere
that she was interested in some philanthropy. Well, money comes in
handy in charity.” He grinned broadly at Mrs. Dinsmore.
At that moment her protege was extremely distasteful to the lady.
But she was a philosopher where marriage was concerned, and she
whole-heartedly hoped that her cousin Millicent would not dally too
long with her opportunity and allow the matrimonial prize to escape.
She was sincerely fond of Millicent, and desired for her the best
things in the world. She sometimes said so with touching earnestness.
“She told me”—Mr. Brockton stumbled slightly—“that there wasn't
any one else.”
“There isn't. She has her train—she's enormously admired—but there
is no one in whom she is sentimentally interested. And Aunt Jessie says
it was so all the time they were in Europe.”
“Wasn't there ever?” he demanded.
“My dear Mr. Brockton, Millicent is twenty-nine, as you reminded
her, and she's a normal woman! Of course there have been some ones—her
music-master at fourteen, I dare say, and an actor at sixteen, and a
young curate at eighteen—oh, of course I'm jesting. But I suppose she
was somewhat like other girls. She was engaged at nineteen—and he must
have been quite twenty-three! No, I should dismiss all jealousy of her
past if I were you.”
Mrs. Dinsmore wondered suddenly if she had been wise, after all, to
admit that widely known fact.
“Oh yes, a bread-and-butter engagement. My uncle was notoriously
inadequate in all practical affairs; he was a scholar and something of
a recluse and the most charming gentleman I ever saw, but a child in
worldly matters,—a child! It ended, you see.”
“How did it end?”
“Oh, poor Will Hayter died.”
“Five or six years.”
“Well, I'm not afraid of dead men.” Brockton laughed in relief. Mrs.
Dinsmore did not point out to him from her more subtle knowledge that
constancy to the unchanging dead is sometimes easier than constancy to
the variable living. She was only too glad to have the inevitable
disclosure made lightly and the truth dismissed without frightening off
the desirable suitor. “And certainly Miss Harned don't look as if, as
“Any irremediable grief were gnawing at her damask cheeks?—”
“What's this about damask cheeks?” The question came along with a
swirl of skirts from the great hall. “Cousin Anna, don't hate me for
keeping you so long. Mr. Brockton, I owe you a thousand apologies.”
Some of those who admitted Millicent Harned's charm declared that it
lay in her voice. Always there sounded through its music the note of
eagerness, with eagerness's underlying hint of pathos. Her tones were
like her face, her motions, herself. Impulse, merriment, yearning, and
the shadow of melancholy dwelt in her eyes and shaped her lips to
sensitive curves. She was tall, and her motions were of a spontaneous
grace, swifter and more changeful than most women's.
“You have been a disgracefully long time, Millicent,” her cousin
answered her apology. “But”—she looked at the beautifully gowned
figure, the lovely, imaginative face, thereby, like a good showman,
calling Mr. Brockton's attention to them—“we'll forgive you.”
“Oh, it wasn't primping that kept me. I stopped for a few minutes at
the schoolroom door. Poor Lena! She seemed to be feeling the
responsibilities of erudition terribly this morning. She showed me her
botany slides with such an air! Do you know what genus has the
“No, I don't,” said Anna, shortly. “And Lena's growing up a perfect
young prig. I'll have to change governesses. Heaven knows what I'll
draw next time! The last one had charm, but no learning, and mighty
little intelligence. This one has no manner at all, and is of
encyclopaedic information. A daughter's a terrible responsibility.”
“Isn't she?” Millicent's tone was one of affectionate raillery as
she gathered her draperies about her in the automobile. The notion of
Anna's responsibilities amused her; Anna was so untouched by them—as
smooth-skinned, as slim and vivacious, as the forty-year-old mother of
two boys entering college, a girl in the schoolroom and another in the
nursery, as she had been as a debutante.
“Oh, you may make fun,” said Anna, snapping open the frothy thing
she called a sunshade, “but you don't know how I lie awake nights,
shuddering lest Lena grow up a near-sighted girl with no color and
Millicent only smiled as the great machine moved off. The sunshine,
the rare and ordered beauty of the place, the fragrance of the soft
winds, all lapped her in indolence. As they neared the gate that gave
upon the open road, a turn brought them in sight of the front of the
house. It was very beautiful. She breathed deeply in the content of the
sight—the delicate lines, the soft color, the perfection of detail. In
the gardens were stained, mellow columns and balustrades which Anna had
brought from the dismantled palace in the Italian hills where she had
found them. Everywhere wealth made its subtlest, most delicate appeal
to her eyes.
“My house,” thought Millicent, as they shot out of the grounds,
“shall be different, but as beautiful. The Tudor style, I think, and
for my out-of-door glory a vast rose-garden,—acres, if I please!” Then
she called sternly to her straying imagination. She was picturing what
she might have as the wife of the man before her—the man whose first
proposal she had unhesitatingly refused, whose appearance at Lakeholm
she had regarded as proof of disloyalty on Anna's part—the man who at
the best represented to her only the artistic possibilities of riches.
She dismissed her reverie with a frown and joined in the talk.
“Do you know,” she confessed, “I forget where it is that we are
“We're coming back to the Monroes' for luncheon,” Mrs. Dinsmore
reminded her. “But Mr. Brockton is going to skim over most of the
Berkshires first. I think you said you hadn't been in this part of the
country before, Mr. Brockton?”
“No,” said Brockton, “I haven't had much chance to get acquainted
with the playgrounds of the country. I've been too busy earning a
holiday. But I've earned it all right.” He turned to emphasize his
boast with a nod toward Millicent. She blushed. His very chauffeur must
redden at his braggart air, she thought. The Tudor castle grew dim in
“What do you think of the bubble, Miss Harned?” he went on. “Goes
like a bird, don't she?”
“Indeed she does,” answered Millicent, characteristically making
immediate atonement in voice and look for the mental criticism of the
moment before. “It's really going like a bird. I don't suppose we shall
ever have a sensation more like flying.”
“Not until our celestial pinions are adjusted,” said Anna. Brockton
laughed, but Millicent went on:
“Seriously, the loveliest belief I ever lost was the one in the
wings with which my virtues should be at last rewarded. To breast the
ether among the whirling stars,—didn't you ever lie awake and think of
the possibility of that, Anna?”
“Never! I'm no poet in a state of suffocation, as I sometimes
suspect you of being.”
“As for heaven,” declared Brockton, “I don't take much stock in all
that. We're here—we know that—and we'd better make the most of it.
For all we know, it's our last chance to have a good time. Better take
all that's coming to you here and now, Miss Harned, and not count much
on those wings of yours.”
Millicent smiled mechanically. Could any Elizabethan garden of
delight compensate for the misery of having each butterfly of fancy
crushed between Lemuel Brockton's big hands in this fashion?
They were entering a village. Before them was the triangular green
with the soldier's monument upon it. About it were the post-office, the
stores, the small neat houses of the place. A white church,
tall-steepled, green-shuttered, rose behind the monument, and with it
dominated the square. A wagon or two toiled lazily along the road;
before the stores a few dusty buggies were tied. The place seemed
drowsy to stagnation in the summer heat. Why, Millicent wondered, were
towns so crude and unlovely in the midst of a country so beautiful?
There was a sudden explosive sound, and, with a crunch and a jerk
which almost threw them from their seats, the machine came to a
standstill. Brockton and his chauffeur were out in an instant, the one
peering beneath, the other examining more closely. He emerged in a
moment, and there was a jargon of explanation, unintelligible to the
two women. All that Anna and Millicent understood was that the accident
was not serious; that they would be delayed only a few minutes, and
that Brockton was very angry with some one for the mishap. The two men
worked together. Anna looked at her cousin.
“I'm dead sleepy,” she half whispered. “The wind in my face and the
sun are too soporific for me. Let us not say a word to each other.”
“You read last night,” Millicent accused her. “But I don't feel
particularly conversational myself.”
She leaned back and surveyed the scene again. She could read the
words graved on the granite block beneath the bronze soldier:
“To the men of Warren who fought that their country might be whole
and their fellows free this tribute of love is erected.”
And there followed the honor-roll of Warren's fallen.
Millicent's sensitive lips quivered a little. Her ready imagination
pictured them coming to this very square, perhaps,—the men of Warren.
Boys from the hill farms, men from the village shops, the blacksmith
who had worked in the light of yonder old forge, the carpenter who was
father to the one now leisurely hammering a yellow L upon that
weather-stained house,—she saw them all. What had led them? What call
had sounded in their ears that they should leave their ploughshares in
the furrows, their tills, their anvils, and their benches? What better
thing had stirred with the primeval instinct for fight, with the
unquenchable, restless longing for adventure, to send them forth? She
read the words again—“that their country might be whole and their
She moved impatiently. For now an old shadowy theory of hers—an
inheritance from the theories of the recluse, her father—stirred from
a long-drugged quiet: a theory that there was a disintegrating
unpatriotism in the untouched, charmed life of riches she and her
fellows sought. She felt the disturbing conviction that those common
men—she could almost hear their blundering speech, see their uncouth
yawns at the sights and sounds of beauty on which she fed her
soul—that those men had wells of life within them purer, sweeter, than
she. She averted her eyes from the monument.
“Honey!” called a voice, full-throated and loving—“honey, where are
There was a play-tent on the little patch of yard before the brown
cottage to the left. The voice had come from the narrow piazza.
Millicent shivered as she looked at it, with its gingerbread
decorations already succumbing to the strain of the seasons. The answer
came from the tent:
“Here I am, muvver. Did you want me?”
She came out—a child of five or six years. The round-eyed solemnity
of babyhood had not left her yet. She brought her small doll family
with her, and a benevolent collie ambled beside her. Her mother
watched, tenderness beautifying her brown eyes: she was a young woman,
no older than Millicent, but her face was more lined than Anna's; a
strand of dark hair was blown across her cheek; there were fruit stains
on her apron. All the marks of a busy household life were about her,
all the bounteous restfulness of a woman well beloved, and the
anxieties of a loving woman. She gave the automobile a passing glance,
but it had no interest for her. Her eyes came back to caress the young
thing which toiled up the steps to her, babbling of a morning's events
in the tent.
“Yes, sweetheart, that was very nice,” she said, in answer to some
breathless demand for sympathy. “And mother has brought you the bread
and jam she promised you this morning. Will you eat it here, or in the
“Couldn't I come into the kitchen to eat it, where you are?”
“Why, yes, honey, if you want to.”
The door closed upon the vision of intimate love. Millicent saw Lena
walking sedately with the governess of no charm and encyclopaedic
“Now we're all right,” called Brockton, loudly. “Upon my word, Mrs.
Dinsmore, I think you were asleep! Miss Harned, you can't be as
entertaining as I thought if your cousin falls asleep with you.”
“But think how soothing I must be; that's even better than to be
“By ginger! I never found that out—that you were soothing, I mean.”
It was evident that Mr. Brockton intended a compliment. Anna Dinsmore
saw the annoyed red whip out upon Millicent's cheeks. She interposed a
few ready, irrelevant questions before the tide of Brockton's flattery.
They made their swift way through the hills, sometimes overlooking
the winding course of the river, sometimes skirting the great estates
of the region, again whizzing noisily through an old village. Anna and
Brockton sustained the weight of conversation. Millicent smiled in
vague sympathy with their laughter and Joined at random in the talk.
Obstinately her mind had stayed behind her—with the men of Warren,
with the round-faced child, and the woman to whose life love and not
art gave all its beauty.
They approached one of the larger old towns of the country—a place
with a bustling main street and elm-shaded thoroughfares branching from
it. Here were ample, well-kept lawns and houses of prosperous dignity.
It seemed charming to Millicent with its air of unhurried activity or
“What is this, Anna?” she asked.
Anna told her.
“Riverfield?” Millicent repeated the name, but in a strange voice.
Anna stared a little.
“Yes. Why? Do you know any one here?”
“No.” The word trickled slowly, unwillingly, from Millicent.
“Lovely town, and there are some good places outside,” said Anna.
“The Ostranders have one, and Jimson, the artist. But the native city,
or whatever you call it, is adorable. It has that air of rewarded
virtue which makes one ashamed of one's life—”
“I wish”—Millicent still spoke remotely, as if out of a sleep—“I
wish, Mr. Brockton, that we might find a little library and museum they
“Why, of course!”
“Are you going to compare it with the Vatican, Millicent?” asked
Anna, flippantly. Millicent turned a distant, starry gaze upon her
“No,” she said; and then, in a flash of sympathy and fright, Anna
remembered that it had been for some little Berkshire town that Will
Hayter had built a library and museum just before his death, six years
before—the town from which his family had originally come. Her memory
worked rapidly, constructing the story. The blood dyed her face at the
thought of her obtuseness. Then she set her lips firmly. She had done
her best; if a wanton fate chose to interfere now and make Millicent
slave to the phantom of her early, radiant love, she, Anna, could do no
“Here we are, I guess,” called Brockton. The machine shot into a
broad street. A promenade between a double row of elms down its centre
gave it a spacious dignity. The modest courthouse stood on one side, as
green-bowered as if Justice were a smiling goddess; a few churches
broke the stretch of houses. And on the other side the library and
“Pretty little building, but plain,” commented Brockton, making
disparaging note of its graceful severity.
“It's exactly suited to the place; it epitomizes its spirit,” said
Anna, glibly. “It's austere without being forbidding—perfect Colonial
adaptation of the Greek.”
Millicent made no architectural observation. Instead she said: “If
you don't mind, I should like to go in for a while. You could pick me
up later, perhaps on your way back to—Where is it we are lunching?”
Consternation looked out of Anna's eyes, bewilderment out of
Brockton's. But Millicent turned to them with such gentle command in
her gaze that they could offer no protest.
“Come back in half an hour, if you are ready,” she said. Upon Anna,
whose baffled look followed her up the flagging between the close-clipt
lawns, there came the feeling that she was leaving her cousin alone
with the beloved dead.
“Now what—” began Brockton, in full-toned protest,—“what the—”
“That was the last thing Will Hayter did,”—Anna interrupted his
question. “And the first, so to speak. It was a fairly important
commission. Jessup, the Trya Drop liniment man, came from
Riverfield—he has a mammoth place outside now. When he began to coin
money faster than the mint, he gave lots of things to his
birthplace—which has always blushed for him. It's prouder that
Whittier once spent Sunday with one of its citizens than that Alonzo
Jessup is its son. Well, he gave the library and museum, and the
commission went to Will Hayter. The Hayters came from here two or three
generations ago. It was just before his death, and Millicent has been
abroad almost ever since. So she had never seen it.”
Brockton gave a look of speechless chagrin at his hostess, which she
“My dear Mr. Brockton, after all, I never undertook to be a
marriage-broker!” Then she glanced at the chauffeur and forbore.
Meantime Millicent sat in one of the square exhibition-halls. The
sweet air, with the scent of hay from the farther country faintly
impregnating it, blew through the quiet. No one else shared the room
with her. The even light soothed her eyes, the stillness calmed the
fluttering apprehension in her breast which had presaged she knew not
what fresh anguish of loss. There were pictures on the walls—one or
two not despicable originals which Trya Drop Jessup had given, many
copies, and a few specimens of Riverfield's native talent. But she saw
none of them, any more than one sees the windows and the paintings in a
great cathedral in the first fulness of reverence. To her this was a
sacred place. That grief had lost its poignancy, that youth and health
with cruel insistence had reasserted their sway over her life, did not
mean forgetfulness, unfaith.
“Truly, truly,”—she almost breathed the words aloud,—“there has
been no other one. That was my love, young as we were. But I must fill
up the days—I must fill up the days.”
* * * * *
Her eyes were fixed unseeingly upon a great canvas at the other end
of the hall. Some Riverfield hand had portrayed a Riverfield
imagination's conception of the moment in the life of Christ when, the
temptations of Satan withstood, angels came to Him upon the mountain.
In the lower distance the kingdoms of the world grew dim beneath the
shadow that fell from the vanquished and retreating tempter, and from
the opening heavens a dazzling cloud of angels streamed toward the
solitary Figure on the height. By and by Millicent's eyes took note of
it. She half smiled. There was daring at least!
Then the picture faded, and again the persistent figure of the child
which had so filled her imagination came before her. But this time it
was toward herself that the rosy face was turned and limpid eyes lifted
in unquestioning dependence. She was the mother; she stood on the
piazza, and by her side he stood, who had been so dear in himself, so
infinitely dearer in the thought of all that should be; toward them the
child came; they were enveloped by breathless love for each other and
for that being, innocent, trusting, which their love had called into
life. So, dimly, she had dreamed in the radiant days of old. Almost she
could feel his hand upon her shoulder, hear his voice full of
tenderness that expressed itself only in tone, not in word, taking
refuge from too great feeling in jest. She closed her eyes against the
vision that made her faint with anguish.
Some one entered the room with a brisk little trot; Millicent opened
her eyes and turned her head. A small woman, “old maid” from the top of
her neat gray head to the toe of her list shoes, came forward. She held
a pad and pencil and wore the badge of authority in her manner. At
sight of Millicent she paused, blinking behind her glasses. Millicent
came slowly out of her trance; recognition dawned upon her. She rose.
“Miss Hayter—Aunt Harriet!” she cried, advancing.
“It is you, then!” chirped the elder lady. “My dear, who could have
“Not I, for one!” She held both Miss Hayter's hands. “I had no idea
you were here. Surely you haven't given up your beloved Boston school?”
“Oh no. Only in the summer I come here for a month and substitute
for the regular curator while she is on her vacation. It”—she
struggled against a constitutional distaste for self-revelation—“it
seems like a little visit with Will, somehow.”
Millicent's throat throbbed with a strangled sob. No one had spoken
his name in so long! Her people had had no interest but to banish the
memory of him from her heart; this quaint little aunt of his, who had
adored him and lived for him, was the first who had spoken of him
in—she did not know how many years. She held tight to the old hands,
her eyes clung to the withering face. “Say it again,” she whispered;
“say his name.”
“Why, my dear,” cried the older woman, “is it still as hard as this?
Come, sit down here with me. Of course I knew that you were not one of
the changing kind,”—Millicent winced,—“but I'm sorry to think you
should suffer now as keenly as you do.”
“It is not just that,” said Millicent, shamefacedly. “Only, seeing
you unexpectedly gave me a pang. And then, being in the place he
The older woman patted her hand soothingly. “I understand,” she
said. “I've always understood. When—when you didn't write after the
very first, I knew it was because you couldn't, not because you forgot.
You were really made for each other, you two. I think I never saw two
such radiant, happy creatures in the world. Ah, well!” she wiped a
sudden dew from her glasses, “waiting's hard, my dear, but it ends,—it
Millicent was hurt by the unbroken faith in her, by the
unquestioning belief she could not share. She looked wistfully upon the
shining, tearful eyes.
“It is very beautiful to think that,” she said, “but, dear Aunt
Harriet, you are mistaken about me. I am going to tell you everything.
I—I loved your nephew. I shall not love any one else. It happened to
come to me in perfectness when I was young—love. But I live, I am
well, I am alive to pleasure and pain. How shall I fill up my life but
with the things that still matter to me?”
“You think of marrying, you mean?” Aunt Harriet's voice was dry and
harsh. “Well—I am sure Will would wish your happiness, and I—it would
not be for me to object. Every day it is done, and very often rightly,
I suppose; for money, for companionship, for the chance of
self-development, women marry without love. I—I could only wish you
“You—do not understand.”
“My dear,”—her voice softened again; something in the pallor and
the quivering pain of the girl touched her,—“I do not mean to speak
hardly to you. It seems to me like this: when it comes to piecing out a
life that has been broken, as yours was—as mine was, my dear, as mine
was—there are two ways of doing it. Either you keep your ideal of
perfect love, and lead your poor every-day life of odds and ends, like
mine, filling your days with the best scraps of pleasure or usefulness
you may, or you give up your ideal of perfect love and marry, and have
your home and your children and your rounded outward life. There is,
maybe, no question of higher or lower. Each one of us does what her
nature bids her. I had always thought of you as one who—But it is not
for me to judge.”
Her voice was gentle, and she did not look at Millicent. Her eyes
seemed to pierce the canvas on the opposite wall and the hangings and
the stones behind it, and to see a far image of souls in the struggle
of choice. The woman beside her sat silent, her thoughts with the
idealists—the men who gave up the comfort of their firesides, the gain
of their occupations, and followed whither the vision led; the woman
whose home was built upon love and who would see only infamy in houses
founded otherwise; the poor soul beside her, stronger in courage, more
aspiring in thought, than she, with all her delicacies, her refinements
of taste. The ideal had led them all—the ideal, as it had once shone
for her and for him whose spirit had informed and beautified the spot
where she sat and made her choice.
“Aunt Harriet,” she said, and her face was like the sudden flashing
of stars between torn clouds,—“Aunt Harriet—” She could not utter the
decision in words. “May I come to see you—and learn something from
Miss Hayter looked. There was no need to question. No knight ever
rose from his accolade with a face more glorified than Millicent's when
she silently dedicated herself to the shining company of those who keep
unsullied the early vision.
As she passed out of the hall, her eyes fell again upon the painting
of the Temptation. She read the black and gilt legend below it—“And
Angels Came and Ministered Unto Him.” Then she laughed down upon the
old-fashioned figure trotting by her side. “And angels came,” she said.
Her rapt look frightened Anna when the automobile returned for her.
Then the heart of that frivolous woman was stricken for a moment with
“You seem very happy,” she faltered, “and—amused, is it? What are
you smiling over?”
“I am still thinking of angels. Would you ever have dreamed, Anna,
that they sometimes wore list shoes, and sometimes ate bread and jam,
and occasionally spoke with granite lips? They do.”
Brockton stirred uneasily, foreboding failure. And Anna sighed,
mourning two lost visions.