of her life, for the flashing desires and the old breathless
pleasures of youth which she had lost. For a month this passive joy
lasted--the joy of one whose days are full and whose every activity is
in useful service. Then there came an October afternoon which she never
forgot because it burned across her life like a prairie fire and left a
scarred track of memory behind it. It had been a windless day, filled
with glittering blue lights that darted like birds down the long
ash-coloured roads, and spun with a golden web of air which made the
fields and trees appear as thin and as unsubstantial as dreams. The
children were with Marthy in the park, and Virginia, attired in the old
waist with the new sleeves, was leaning on the front gate watching the
slow fall of the leaves from the gnarled mulberry tree at the corner,
when Mrs. Pendleton appeared on the opposite side of the street and
crossed the cobblestones of the road with her black alpaca skirt
trailing behind her.

"I wonder why in the world mother doesn't hold up her skirt?" thought
Virginia, swinging back the little wooden gate while she waited.
"Mother, you are letting your train get all covered with dust!" she
called, as soon as Mrs. Pendleton came near enough to catch her
half-whispered warning.

Reaching down indifferently, the older woman caught up a handful of her
skirt and left the rest to follow ignominiously in the dust. From the
carelessness of the gesture, Virginia saw at once that her mother's mind
was occupied by one of those rare states of excitement or of distress
when even the preservation of her clothes had sunk to a matter of
secondary importance. When the small economies were banished from Mrs.
Pendleton's consciousness, matters had assumed indeed a serious aspect.

"Why, mother, what on earth has happened?" asked Virginia, hurrying
toward her.

"Let me come in and speak to you, Jinny. I mean inside the house. One
can never be sure that some of the neighbours aren't listening," she
said in a whisper.

Hurrying past her daughter, she went into the hall, and, then turning,
faced her with her hand on the door-knob. In the dim light of the hall
her face showed white and drawn, like the face of a person who has been
suddenly stricken with illness. "Jinny, I've just had a visit from Mrs.
Carrington--you know what a gossip she is--but I think I ought to tell
you that she says people are talking about Oliver's riding so much with
Abby."

A pain