of psychic
revelations a man could n't feel secure even in his thoughts. There
was apparently some inner secret--she had touched upon it
before--relating to the Arsdale curse. Doubtless if one pried
carefully enough many another skeleton could be found in the closets of
the house of this family half-poisoned now through three generations.

It was early and it suddenly occurred to her that he had probably not
yet breakfasted.

She struggled a moment with a conflicting sense of hospitality and
propriety, but finally said resolutely, "I should be glad if you would
breakfast with me. You ought to try your new cook."

The picture he had of her sitting opposite him at the coffee brought
the warm blood to his cheeks.

"I--why--"

"Will you have your chop well done?" she broke in, without giving him
time to frame an excuse.

"Yes," he answered.

She left him.

Within a very short time she announced the meal with pretty grace,
which concealed all trace of nervousness, save for the heightened color
of her cheeks, which, he noted, were as scarlet as though she herself
had been bending over a hot stove. She led the way into an exquisite
little dining room, which he at once took to be the expression of her
own taste. It was in white and apple green, with a large trellised
window opening upon the lawn. A small table had been placed in the sun
near the window, and was covered with dazzling white linen, polished
silver, and cut glass, which, catching the morning beams, reflected a
prismatic riot of colors. The chops, lettuce, bread and butter, and
coffee were already served. As he seated her, he felt as though he
were living out a dream--one of the dreams that as a very young man he
had sometimes dreamed when, lying flat upon his back in the sun, he had
watched the big cotton clouds wafted, like thistledown, across the blue.

It might have been Italy for the blue of the sky and the caressing
warmth of the sun. They threw open the big window and in flooded the
perfume of lilacs and the twitter of sparrows, which is the nearest to
a bird song one can expect in New York. But after all, this was n't
New York; nor Spain; nor even the inner woods; it was just Here. And
Here is where the eyes of a man and a woman meet with spring in their
blood.

Griefs of loss, bitter, poignant; sorrows of mistakes, bruising,
numbing; the ache of disappointments, ingratitudes, betrayals,--Nature
surging on to her fulfillment sweeps t