in the Apocalypse. She read with fervour, her
bonnet back on her rebellious hair, her legs crossed in defiance of
every rule of polite demeanour. Something of the sermon's eloquent,
passionate savagery was heard by Fairfax, and at the close, as the
preacher rose to his climax, Bella heard too. At the text, "There shall
be no more night there, neither candle nor light of the sun," she shut
her book.

"He is preaching from my chapter, Cousin Antony," she whispered; "isn't
it perfectly beautiful?"

Fairfax learned to wait for this phrase of hers, a ready approval of
sensuous and lovely and poetic things. He learned to wait for it as one
does for a word of praise from a sympathetic companion. Gardiner woke up
and yawned, and Fairfax got him on his feet; his tumbled blonde head
reached just to the hymnbook rail. He was a pretty picture with his
flushed soft cheeks, red as roses, and his sleepy eyes wide. So they
stood for the solemn benediction, "The love of God ... go with you ...
always."

CHAPTER VIII

He decided not to be the one to shut doors against himself. If life as
it went on chose with backward fling to close portals behind him of its
own accord, he at least would not assist fate, and with both hands,
generously, as his heart was generous, Fairfax threw all gates wide.
Therefore with no _arriere pensee_ or any rankling thought, he went on
the appointed afternoon to teach his little cousins the rudiments of
drawing.

The weather continued brutal, grew more severe rather, and smartly
whipped him up the avenue and hurled him into the house. He arrived
covered with snow, white as Santa Claus, and he heard by the voices at
the stair head that he was welcome. The three were alone, the upper
floor had been assigned to the drawing party. It was a big room full of
forgotten things, tons of books that people had ceased to want to read,
the linen chest, a capital hiding-place where a soft hand beneath the
lid might prevent a second Mistletoe Bough tragedy. There were old
trunks stored there, boxes which could not travel any more, one of which
had been on a wedding journey and still contained, amongst less poetic
objects, mother's wedding slippers. There was a dear disorder in the big
room whose windows overlooked Madison and Fifth Avenues, and the
distant, black wintry trees of Central Park. A child on either side of
him, Fairfax surveyed his workshop, and he thought to himself, "I could
model here, if I only