en't you?"

But for the most part her mood was one of amazing gentleness and
serenity, with that insistent desire for being good enough and worthy
enough for the glory about to descend upon her. She made little
pilgrimages to all the people they had helped together,--to Ethel and
Jerry and Billiken in Rochester, snugly prosperous and happy, with a
little Jerry, now, whose ears flanged exactly as his father's did; to
Chicago, to confer with little Miss Marjorie and the Roderick Frosts
about the making of the old house where Roderick IV was born into a
Maternity Home, and to gladden the good little Stranger's Friend with a
fat check for her work, and to puncture Mrs. Mussel's gloom with
substantial gifts and the bright and bonny refurnishing of the Christian
room for girls such as Edna Miles pretended to be; to catch up with the
girl who had taken her "CROWDED HOUR" to success, always on tour now, in
one of her playlets, and married to the brother of "BROTHER" ("BROTHER"
himself having given up and gone to make the long fight on the desert).
She went, fur-bundled and red-cheeked, to spend a week-end with Deacon
Gillespie and "Angerleek" at Three Meadows, and found one of the
daughters at home, and the old man told her that two of the sons were
coming for their summer vacations. Angelique was animated with timid
cheer; _he'd_ been different, gentler, since Danny....

Jane went back to New York with June in her heart. Was not this a part of
her life with Michael since he had sent her to that lean, clean island to
snare back her soul? This was part of the harvest they had sown together,
for everything she had done since coming to know him had been shared with
him. There came a moment, of course, when her sense of sanctification
broke like a bubble. "I feel like the Elsie Books," she said, grinning
her boy's grin at herself. "I'd better go home and let Mrs. Wetherby put
me in my place!"

But even in her Vermont village she found balm. They might hold, with
Mrs. Hills, that "Praise to the face is open disgrace," and be chary of
effusions, but Jane Vail was the brightest jewel in their crown, and it
was only the deafest and dimmest old ladies who asked her if she was
still going on with her literary work.

Mrs. Wetherby, although she would never forgive Jane to her dying day,
was clearly thankful to have Martin all to herself. She fed him to
repletion and washed and ironed his silk shirts with her own hands, and
she loved t