lish by marriage.'

"Marriage?" he stammered.

"Yes." She dropped it so lightly that Bloomer could not think she was deliberate, either in her holding back of that vital fact or in her mentioning of it now. "Will you bolt the window on your way down, Bloomer?"

Naturally the information raised in Bloomer's mind a dozen questions. Why the Miss Tait? Bloomer eventually decided that she had been divorced, and had resumed her maiden name. This deduction he verified through her. "You are," he hazarded, "a-a widow?" She glanced up, seemed to grasp his perplexities, hesitated. "Grass," she laughed. "By request. Temporary!" That last was certainly a challenge to him! But what did she mean "By request"? That her husband had divorced her by her request? Bloomer built up an entirely new version of Miss Tait, verified by her manner to him, which had changed not one iota. . . . If she had meant to repulse Bloomer, she would certainly not have continued so familiar with him. But Bloomer wasn't at all sure that he could swallow a divorced husband.

He was still debating the matter when a newspaper reporter at their door threw Miss Tait into a panic, and had to be dealt with personally by Bloomer. The divorce, then, must have been recent. He wondered whether it had been a notorious case; asked Miss Tait the name of her husband, but was put off by her. She told Bloomer that Miss Melissa must be got in repair for an immediate jaunt. They set out on the following morning.

While they did a loop of New York State, Bloomer was still debating pro and con. Never in all his closely buttoned, visored, and putteed life had he experienced such a tour. At every hot-dog stand he was against her. Before Ithaca, while he smoked himself together with the bacon over a picnic flame, and Sally Tait, sprawled in the sun, lifted her eyes from the observation of some ants to smile at him, he was unwillingly for her. Beyond Syracuse, when she ordered him to turn his back and stand guard while she took a dip in a certain creek, Bloomer was unconditionally against her. With every mile it was becoming more and

fatuation was a folly. But with every mile the fatal attraction was growing on him, until now, at that unmentionable tourist's camp outside of Utica, he was in danger of the first spontaneous, natural act of his life.

He was in danger of taking Sally Tait into his arms and declaring himself. The shelter was a tent $1.00 per night-and Bloomer, casting his eyes over the litter of common and very adjacent neighbors, had insisted upon sitting guard on Miss Tait's tent platform while she slept. But the snores had entertained that lady, and some time after midnight she had come out to share with Bloomer the view of stars and of a pair of masculine bare feet protruding from a canvas lean-to. She sat on the plank next to his and, arms hugging her kimono-clad knees, rocked herself.. "Big dipper, little dipper, milky way. I'd like to tickle them, Bloomer.' "What, madam?" he said in a queer, strained voice. So little she was, and so close to him. She had probably led

a damned hard life. . . . Some brute of an Englishman.

"Feet. Micky," she dropped, “would tickle them." "Micky?" "My son."

"You have a son !"

"I have Millicent, Michael, and Cynthia. Five, seven, and ten apiece. Years," she added.

"You have three children! But where?”

"They are in a summer-camp," she yawned.

Whether Bloomer could have swallowed three children, as well as a divorced husband, is certainly a question. But in the Catskills, Sally Tait did a thing which evoked his final and decisive judgment against her. She had drummed up acquaintance with a rural character, who lived in solitary bachelordom in the vilest, shabbiest-looking hut which Bloomer had ever laid eyes upon. Bloomer had posted himself, after dark, on the platform of her tent, naturally supposing that she was within. All through the night he had maintained tender guard, dropping off only once or twice. At gray dawn he had discovered that she was absent. And at

sunrise she had come stumbling in, escorted by her disreputable friend. The man's cow, she explained, had been having a calf, and she had stayed to help.... Afterward, they had got to swopping stories. . . . By the clear light of the morning Bloomer saw the utter impossibility of his taking on a wife like that. He gave notice, and he left on the day of their return to the shingle cottage.

Two weeks later Bloomer was purring down a certain Long Island turnpike at the helm of Mrs. Llewelyn Smedburg's town car. The car was a Hispano-Suiza done in battleship gray. It had embellishments which included the trumpethorn, the Minerva wind-shield, the Shin-o spot-light, gray-monogrammed robes to match his gray-monogrammed livery, etc.; and it had a cold market value of $18,000. In short, it was the king of all the cars which Bloomer had ever driven. As a mistress, Mrs. Smedburg suited him exactly. She had whims, but they were proper whims. She treated Bloomer with the curt indifference which he preferred. If she was exacting and petulant about jolts, she was also not incognizant of his footman's form and of his expert driving technic. . . . His art of crowding out, tootling aside, and dusting down all lesser traffic . . . fumes he left behind him, like a thumbed nose . . . his flourish for all porte-cochères his expression of aloofness to the luxury which he piloted, matching so perfectly his mistress's mien of yawning indifference. . . . These first-class attributes of a superior chauffeur, Mrs. Smedburg (whose wealth was fairly recent) did not overlook.

On this particular day Bloomer had succeeded in gassing every car on the road, when a comical, toplofty old vehicle with the figure of a stage-coach careened into his path. He slowed-he had to. It was she, floppy hat and all. Nothing about the ignominious turnout which was not familiar to Bloomer, except the driver, a mere boy, whose hairin the absence of a cap-was roughened by the wind.

Bloomer sounded three musical notes on his trumpet-horn. The old bus edged over. For three minutes Bloomer ran abreast of them-long enough for her to recognize him and to register his full splendor. Not by a single facial muscle

did he acknowledge her proximity. Then he opened up, and with a fine smooth whish he left them.

"Stop!" It was Mrs. Smedburg, through the speaking-tube.

Bloomer drew up. "That car we just passed-turn and follow it!"

He turned, but Miss Melissa had vanished. A road to the right-Bloomer knew full well the jack-rabbit chase she would lead them. But blank ignorance seemed his best cue.

"But where ? Oh, you stupid!" stormed Mrs. Smedburg. "I met her personally in London once, and I'd have every excuse to follow up

"If it's not presuming, madam, what is the name she went by then?"

"Name? Why, Bloomer, you utter blockhead! That's Lady Sally Hepburne, the famous M. P. Her name and her face are in every paper. She's summering down here somewhere-incognito, of course

"What," asked Bloomer, "is M. P.?" "Member of Parliament," snapped Mrs. Smedburg.

She was featured in the rotogravure section of Bloomer's Sunday paper when she sailed for England. Standing on the deck of the Aquitania, she was surrounded by her three children and her husband.... A mild-looking man, who had Bloomer's sympathy. . . . Wispy, stringy-looking children..

Several days later Bloomer had a note from her, in care of Mrs. Smedburg:

"MY DEAR BLOOMER,

"I want to thank you for protecting me from your Mrs. S. that day. And I want you to reconsider my offer to write you a reference. I am enclosing my best. Sincerely yours,

SALLY TAIT HEPBURNE."

The reference was written on paper with an embossed silver crest. It was the same device which was engraved on the blood-red stone of the ring which she had given him. In changing positions thereafter, Bloomer exhibited both ring and reference to his prospective employer. My lady's car had been an American Frankard. . . . He failed to mention the vintage of the vehicle.

HE February winds shrieked angrily around the old Trimmer farm and shadows crouched blackly on the snow under the Vermont pines. There was no scarlet sunset to-night to soften the austerity of the rugged hills. Mrs. Trimmer, peering anxiously out of the diamond-paned window of the sitting-room, watched the black magic of the pines upon the snow, and shivered. It was sundown. What could be keeping the boys? They were hauling timber from the north meadow and had been gone since noon. She was always a little uneasy when they worked in the north meadow. Not that she believed the superstitions, circulated for years in the little town of Middlebrook, that the ghost of her dead husband was wont to walk beside the creek. But the memory of that day when he had left her in a mad rage because she had dared to warn him against the new bull was still vivid in her mind. He was master of his beasts, he told her. They bent to his will. He went out like a conqueror, his brown eyes brilliant with anger and power. An hour later they carried him home, gored to death. Ever since the tragedy the neighbors had avoided the north meadow. They called the path by the creek "the ghostways," and swore that they had seen John Trimmer there on the eve of All Hallows, fighting with the bull. But the only ghost that frightened Mrs. Trimmer was the ghost of that unconquerable fury which blazed every now and then from the bright brown eyes of her son John. She had two sons, John and James, named after the sons of Zebedee. She had hoped the names might be a protection against the inheritance of the violent passions of their father. For James, it seemed the charm had worked. He was calm and

steady, enduring like the native rock, and, like the rock, rooted in the soil. But John was lightning, vivid, brilliant, devastating. She lived in constant terror lest the lightning smite the rock. "Bear with him, James," she would say. The boys never knew of the black fury which had possessed their father when he went out to meet death from the bull.

Single-handed she had kept on with the farm. Her bitterest enemy was the intense cold of the Vermont hills. Winter frightened her, brought up as she had been in the South, where Nature is gentler. As soon as the first snow began to fly, dread filled her heart that the earth, the source of her bounty, was going to be icelocked for months. She hated the frozen ground. She hated the bitter battle against the cold. Well, the boys were almost men now. They had a New England heritage and did not know how the hoar frost chilled Southern blood. They had been born and brought up on the soil. They would barricade her against the stern winters. They were good boys. She sighed, restless again at the delay. The sun had dropped very quickly and completely behind the western hills. The air was too clear to-night for a lingering sunset. Already twilight was striking a deep blue against the window-pane, the vivid blue of twilight on a chill, white world. Still, the cold couldn't hold much longer. Soon there would be the smell of spring in the March winds; pussy-willows showing their silver fur down by the creek; then the forsythia bushes warming into gold by the side of the house; and finally the lilacs. Mrs. Trimmer's fragile face gladdened at the thought.

Comfort, the old Maltese cat, sleeping cosily in a rocker by the fire, stirred and shook himself alert. Then she heard the team driving into the yard. John had the reins, and her keen ears knew from the tones of his voice as he shouted to the oxen

Mrs. Trimmer looked up in sudden alarm.

"Not the beech in the ghostways, son? I wouldn't want it touched. Your Pa had a hankering after that tree. It was most his favorite on the whole place. And when he died, right under it almost . . . I think we better leave it be, son.'

"I ought of knowed you'd side with him." John jerked his head toward James contemptuously. "A lot of old woman's nonsense about the ghostways. I figure we can't allow silly sentiment and superstition to interfere when we need wood."

"But, son"-Mrs. Trimmer made her voice placating as she saw the dark look deepen "surely there's lots of other trees on the farm. That copper beech is an odd tree. They don't grow in these parts natural like. Your Pa was right proud of it. Every spring he used to watch it; light gold its leaves are at first and then bronzing with the sun, and the leaves that thick you can't see the sky when you're under it. And when you're out in the field and look at it, shining like copper against the blue sky, it has such a grand shape and all. It's got a kind of character, that tree. I'd hate to see it go, son."

John's face hardened. Anger kindled hotly in his brown eyes.

"I reckon it throws a powerful lot of shade and I plan to plant the north meadow come spring. The tree has got to go."

James faced his mother, his chin square, his mouth determined.

"It's your farm, Ma. Tell him he can't take the tree down."

"That's just like you, always skulking behind a woman's skirts," shouted John. "You count on her always taking your part, but this time it won't do any good."

James came forward. He was white and tense. He stood quietly in front of John.

"One of the reasons I want it left is on account of Gail, then, if you want to know. She loves the copper beech and so did Pa and so does Ma. And that's why you want it down. You're mad jealous of her and me. But that tree is noble and it's got a right to live."

Withering scorn from John. "Next you'll be saying it's got a soul. The copper beech is no more noble than the hickory we chopped this fall. I notice you don't mind letting that keep you warm."

"Boys,' Mrs. Trimmer beseeched. "Stop your quarrelling and go to bed. You're both petered out. Things will look different to you in the morning."

"They won't look different to me." John's face was dark with fury. "I don't like to go against you, Ma, but there's got to be a man in this family to carry on the farm work. I'm goin' to cut down that copper beech as soon as it comes light."

Grimly determined, he turned and stamped up the crooked little stairs to the floor above.

James looked at his mother with misery in his eyes. He wanted to tell her he was sorry they had quarrelled. He wanted to tell her about the beech, how he had loved it all his life. Most of all he wanted to tell her about Gail. But he had broken through into speech once that night and could not bring himself to speak again. His eyes besought her. Then he turned toward the stairs.

"Good night, Ma." "Good night, son."

Old Mrs. Trimmer sat on by the fire. It was very quiet. Every now and then there was a little hiss as the steam from the kettle condensed on its bright surface

and dropped to the stove. Comfort came and rubbed against her knees. Comfort had seen the boys grow up, too. Mrs. Trimmer sat on in the quiet. She was thinking about the beech-tree. John had said that they would be saying it had a soul next. It was funny he should think of that, because she did think it had a soul-almost. She remembered in the first rapture of their marriage how she and that other John used to go and sit underneath it in the long summer twilights. The tree would shake down the moonlight upon them through its leaves like golden rain. Love was a glory then, and she would forget John's black rages and they would both be fathoms deep in the golden glamour of the moon. She could see the tree, too, in winter rimed with frost, 'shining with icicles as gaily as a Christmas-tree. And in summer its bronzed green was a feathery fretwork against a blue sea of sky. It seemed to be a part of her, that tree. Strange how the years leaped by. A little while ago, and she and John found ecstasy beneath the tree. Now it was Gail and James. Life was a game of leap-frog. First it is your turn to jump. Then you must lend yourself for somebody else's turn. Perhaps, after all, John would not attempt to cut down the tree. By morning he would have forgotten all about it. Wearily, at last, she rose, put out the lamp, and made her way up-stairs.

It must have been close to two o'clock when she awoke, burdened with a sense of disaster. At first in that twilight zone, between sleeping and waking, where one so often feels something ominous but cannot remember what it is, she sensed but could not think what disturbed her. Then she remembered the quarrel of James and John over the copper beech. She lay for a little while thinking what she would do. Knowing his father, knowing John, she was sure now that he would make good his threat. Suddenly it came to her that she could stop him. She would hide away the saws and axes. They must be in the wood-shed, which was only a step from the kitchen door. She would carry them up here to her own room. John would never think of looking here. Still... She nestled down under the warm quilt. Was it really necessary?

The house was bitter cold. The fire had been dead these many hours. She hated to cross to the woodshed. Everything was so eerie and weird in the hush of the night. Yet, there was a moon. And John would certainly get up at dawn. She knew the ugliness of his moods too well not to gauge them accurately. And the beech— it had its roots within her. She couldn't let it go. It would take only a few minutes to hide the saw and axe. Then she would be back in bed, all warm and cosey again. She reached for her eiderdown wrapper and put it on. Then she reached for the matches and lighted a candle. She tried to move softly so that she wouldn't disturb the boys asleep on either side of the thin partitions of laths. But she shook so with the cold that she could scarcely control her hands. This was nonsense. She tried to think of something to direct her thoughts away from the chill. She looked at the wrapper and remembered she had bought it because it was red and it had looked so bright and warm that day in the store in Burlington. It seemed anything but warm now. The cold penetrated it as if it were gossamer. Trembling, she made her way to the stairs. As she passed the little diamondshaped window in the hall she glanced out. The shadows of the pines were pointing long, black fingers on the snow. There was no warmth in the hard glitter of the moonlight. It seemed to light up the coldness. Well, it would soon be spring now. Her knees trembled and her legs felt weak. She tried to think of the hot July sun on her poppy-bed. But she shook uncontrollably with cold. Then suddenly she tripped and was falling, falling interminably.

James was the first to reach her. He had been awakened by the sound of the fall. She was lying unconscious at the foot of the treacherous little stairway. Comfort, his back arched, his eyes frightened, was standing over her. After a little while she opened her eyes. John was saying he would hitch up and go for the doctor.

"It's no use, dear," she smiled weakly. "I know it isn't, and I'd rather have you stay here with me." And then, as if the purpose for which she had left her bed at that hour of the night had suddenly