Part 14 (1/2)

Her mother's voice was a bit uneven as she answered.

”I'm sure he will, little sweetheart I'm _sure_ he will.”

”Now,” requested the child, ”you read yours.”

Kathryn, drawing the child to her, bent forward. There was much in her heart--much that she might not tell to anyone of all the world save two-- and one of these was far away; and, even though the other could not understand, still--

She read:

”My John: You know how we love you, but you don't know how we miss you.

Please, please come back to us. If it weren't for Muriel I don't know what I'd do, John, dear. I don't want to make you unhappy. I want you to have all the honors--all the prominence--everything that a man's heart holds dear. But I can't help being jealous a little of the things that are keeping you from us....”

She ceased, turning her head away. A robin, in the roses, lifting its head, broke into song. The child waited, patiently.... At length she inquired:

”Is that all, mother dear?”

Kathryn nodded. ”Yes, honey.”

”Haven't you made any kisses?”

”No, dearie.”

”But,” protested the child, ”daddy'll be so disappointed!”

”Will he, honey? That wouldn't do, would it? ... Very well, then, mother'll make some kisses.”

With Muriel looking on, the mother made several large, and heavy crosses at the foot of that which she had written. There were other marks on that letter--marks that were not kisses--marks that had been made by moisture, and that had smeared the ink as they had been quickly wiped away.

These the child did not notice; she was looking toward the house.

”Here comes Aunt Elinor, mother, dear,” she said.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

SHADOWS.

Mrs. VanVorst had been very ill. A fever, contracted in South Africa where she had been with her husband--a fever gained in a futile effort to save the life of that husband, had sadly f.a.gged a naturally vigorous const.i.tution. There had been a recurrence soon after her return to America. Now she was in that condition of indolent convalescence that is in women so interesting, in men so uninteresting.

She was an out-of-door woman, tall, lithe, willowy. In the rugged health that was normally hers, she seemed muscled almost like one of the opposite s.e.x; yet she lost by it none of the charm of frank femininity that was hers. She was long-limbed, clean-limbed, quick of mind and of body.... The forced inaction of illness was irksome to her. It was hard for her to walk slowly; it was hard for her to sit in silent inaction-- to lie in indolent unrest. Too, she felt more than anyone save herself might ever know the loss of the man that had been to her not only husband but as well friend, companion and comrade.

She had been of the world, though anything but worldly. She knew perhaps, more than many another of the Hidden Things.

She strolled forward through the sun-flecked garden. A magazine, its leaves still uncut, was in her hand. She sank into a chair, in a spot from which she might see the Sound and its burden of sails.

”Tom come yet?” she asked.