ality?

Upon the two in the faded picture the most exquisite mystery of life
had wrought its transfiguration. Vaguely conscious of the unfamiliar and
uncomfortable chair in which he sat, the young man looked out upon
Rosemary, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, with an
all-embracing, all-understanding love. It came to her with a sense of
surprise that father was only a little older than she was; he had
paused, and she, receiving the gift of life from him, had gone on. And
the little mother, brave in her white satin, with her long veil trailing
down from her wreath of orange blossoms; she too, loved Rosemary;
indeed, with a holy deepening of her soul, she loved the whole world.

[Sidenote: Effects of the Picture]

The picture must have been taken very soon after the ceremony. Rosemary
fancied that they had gone to the photographer's with one or more of the
wedding guests, while the revelry and feasting still went on. And yet,
so soon, into the woman's eyes had come the look of wistfulness, almost
of prayer, as though she had suddenly come face to face with the
knowledge that love, like a child, is man's to give and woman's to keep,
to guard, to nourish, to suffer for, and, perhaps, last of all, to lose.

The mother-hunger woke in Rosemary a strange longing. What joy to serve
this little mother, to whom her child was as unknown then as now! What
ecstasy to uncoil the smooth strands of brown hair, take the white
shoes from the tiny feet, destined to tread the unfamiliar ways of pain;
to breathe the soft sweetness of her neck and arms! The big, strong
father, lovably boyish now, appealed to her with a sense of shelter, for
valiantly he stood, or had tried to stand, between his child and the
world, but, from the other came something more.

[Sidenote: Above Everyday Cares]

"I think," said Rosemary, to herself, "that she must have kissed me
before she died."

That day she went about her tasks as might a dweller from another
planet, who had set his body to carry on his appointed duties, while his
spirit roamed the blue infinite spaces between the day-stars and the
sun. Early in the afternoon she left the house, without asking whether
she might go, or saying when she would be back. She even had the
audacity to leave the luncheon dishes piled in the sink, and unwashed.

At the foot of the Hill of the Muses, she paused, then shook her head.
She could never go there again, though the thought of Alden now brought
no