come to her, "Let this be the last quarrel, James and John," and added, as if the precedence might wound, "John and James."

The next morning the doctor said she had broken her back in the fall.

The copper beech was not mentioned again between the brothers. In the face of their great sorrow it dissolved into nothingness.

They buried her in the little cemetery that spread in the lap of the valley. It was hard to dig a grave in the frozen earth. James kept wishing if only the spring had come, if only she could have seen the spring. He searched the marshy spots for pussy-willows, but there were none. He could find no flowers at all in this wintry land. There was no blossoming thing except the begonia on her kitchen window-sill. The afternoon of the funeral he brought the plant out to the cemetery and set it on the grave. But when he saw how the wind shrilled through the meagre blossoms, he took it up again. She had tended it so carefully. She would hate to have it shivering there in the cold. He put it under his hat, snug from the wind, and hurried it home.

When he got back John was looking among the papers of the old desk in the sitting-room. James saw that his fingers were resting upon the battered savingsbank book that his mother had always kept hidden away. James went and sat in his mother's chair. Comfort came, as he always did, rubbing against James's legs, sympathizing, seeking solace.

John spoke apologetically. "I thought it might be a good time to tend to these things, now that we are layin' off work for the afternoon."

"I can't seem to get my mind on anything but her. I'm kind of struck dumb." James's voice was husky.

"Somebody's got to have some common sense in a time like this. We'll want to get away out of here now, more than ever. Well, I've just seen that one of us has got to stay home.”

This statement at last penetrated James's bewilderment. "I thought there was money enough for college," he said. "Well, I am tellin' you there isn't enough for two."

VOL. LXXXII.-49

To James this dream of medical college had been associated with his mother. As long as he could remember, they had planned on it together. And she had saved and saved. Now they were both gone, she and the dream.

66

"It's the only thing in the world I want." He said it half to himself, but John heard him and started up eagerly. "Is it?" he said. "For sure, James?" James nodded his head in affirmation. 'Well, then"-John went on more eagerly than ever-"you take the money and go. I'd as lief stay here. I'd rather, in fact. College doesn't mean so much to me. The only thing in the world I want is Gail."

At the mention of Gail's name, James started up like a shot. "I wasn't thinking of Gail when I said that. That's different."

John's eyes were getting dangerously bright. But he tried to speak gently. He didn't want to antagonize James. He would plead with him if necessary. His grief for his mother had made him hunger for Gail. He must drown his loss in her. She must give him surcease. While with James, the thought of love could not enter in. He felt it would be long before the natural joys, the happiness and abandon of love, could bubble up. The springs of his heart were as frozen as the ground. He had no mind for any thought except his mother. He was conscious of the fact, as if it were the experience of another man, that Gail and he loved. Some day, perhaps, that other man would enter into his kingdom, but now no, not now. He must explain to John, though, that his love was impossible.

"It isn't the money, John. That hasn't anything to do with it. You can't buy me off. It's the way Gail and I feel. We love each other. It wouldn't do you any good for me to go away. At first I didn't know you cared, John, and then, after last summer, it was too late. I'm sorry, John.”

"Have you asked her?" John's voice

was tense.

"No, but I know, just the same." "Well, then, it isn't too late. All I ask is that you give me a chance. She liked me as well as you up to last summer. She might change again. You think her love

is so wonderful, and yet you won't even let yourself out of her sight for a year or so." He spoke sneeringly.

"I am not afraid of Gail. Gail won't change, ever." James said it proudly.

"All right, but all I ask is a chance to try. I'll stick by whatever she decides. I never asked you anything before, James. I'll never ask you anything again. While I'm tryin,' you can go to college, and then if it's you she wants, you'll be all ready to start in."

"I can't do it, John. You mean never to write to her or try to see her for two whole years? I can't do it."

John's face was darkening in the old way. James, looking into his eyes, saw this matter of Gail was life and death to him. Well, it was to James, too. Gail was the future, Gail was everything. After all, though, John only asked for a test, a chance to try. Wasn't it only fair to give it to him? But he had had his chance. James had won her in fair competition. He had always played square with John.

"You call yourself a brother. Yet you let this thing come between us," John said bitterly.

Well, maybe John was right. Wouldn't it always come between them unless he put it to the test finally and for all time? And Gail-he wasn't afraid to trust Gail. He looked at John now. Already his eyes were ablaze with unreasoning anger. Even on this day of days. Suddenly, clearly, his mother's last words came to James: "Let this be the last quarrel, James and John. . . John and James.' "I'll go away, John," he said.

Neither of the brothers thought of Gail. It was bitterly hard for her that first year. And public opinion in Middlebrook from the first was hard on James. He had drawn all the savings from the bank and had left John with nothing but rough work for a living. The unselfishness of John became glorified. He took on a new interest in the eyes of the community. And then there was Gail. Every one knew she and James had been sweethearts. Every one knew also, through young William Henry, the post-office clerk, that letters never came for Gail.

They said Gail was eating her heart

out for James. They said it was a burning shame. They said John was kind and was doing his best to make it up to her. They told each other how he drove her to and from Middlebrook, where she taught school, when the horses had been sick down at the Haskins farm. They told each other of little presents he was always buying for her at the village store. It's made a different man of him, they would say he's that gentle. He'd make a good steady husband for her. He's a tiller of the soil, rooted in the community, not running off to distant cities after booklearning. And they took pains to communicate their ideas to Gail. But Gail was stanchly true to James. He had come to bid her good-by, strangely perhaps, but still he had come. He stopped by on his way to the station. He had barely time for his train, and he stood at the gate, not seeming even to desire the privacy of the parlor, where he might have kissed her good-by. He merely took her hand and said: "Whatever happens, Gail, remember I'll always feel just the same.' Then he was gone down the road.

Why had he gone off like that? Why did he never write, never send an address that she might write? The problem was never out of Gail's mind. Sometimes she thought it with her heart.

Time went on. Two springs now Gail had cut lilacs and brought them to Mrs. Trimmer's grave in the little cemetery spread in the lap of the valley. Still no word from James. Occasionally John had letters. He would tell her about them briefly. James was doing well in his studies. James had won a prize. Never any message for her. Of course, if there were, John would tell her. Then one day, longing overcame her pride. She asked. John seemed reluctant, but finally told her that her name had not been mentioned.

The neighbors were fond of saying that Gail Haskins was lookin' kind of peaked these days.

John tried making love to her, at first gently, then with growing ardor. The strain was beginning to tell on him, too. Gail didn't respond, and her indifference was fuel to his fire. He became obsessed with the thought of her. James had only promised to keep silence for two years.

The time was nearly up. Then one day he had a letter. James was coming home. That evening he saw Gail in the north meadow. She was under the copper beech. The thought that any day James would return to claim her maddened John. He couldn't give her up now. James had been away from her all these months. He had probably forgotten how utterly desirable she was.

John flung himself down beside her on the grass. It would seem that William Henry had told her about the letter. Again her longing conquered. Hesitatingly she inquired had James said anything about her. She had a bunch of trumpetflowers and she was busy fitting the long slender blossoms on her fingers like dunce-caps. Playfully she gave him her hand that he might shake the scarlet fingers. But he held it, crushing the soft fabric of the petals till he felt the warm skin beneath. Gail, pretending wrath at his heartlessness in crushing the flowers, tried to draw her hand away. But he held her wrist and one by one removed the tattered trumpets from her fingers. The blood rushed singing to his ears. She had asked if there were any message from James. Then she still cared for him. Or did she? Perhaps it was merely a friendly interest. She and James had always been friends. Suppose he were to tell her that James was coming home, that he might be here any day. That would be the test. He could be sure, then, from her face, whether she cared or not. With his eyes devouring her he blurted out the news. She made a little sound as if her breath were dying in her throat. Her face went white, back of the scarlet trumpetflowers. And then light leaped into her eyes. As plainly as if she had proclaimed it from the housetops, John knew she cared. He couldn't stand it. This quiet, abiding joy between her and James, this wasn't love. What did they know of the fires that tortured and consumed him? It came to him that, if love is like fire, then it can be communicated. If she could but feel his passion, hers might be lighted like a torch. And if love is like a fire, then this love of hers for James could be put out. It could be quenched. It was all so easy, and, after all, James couldn't care as he did. He

tried to conceal his emotion under an elaborately casual tone.

"I suppose it won't make any difference to you, Gail, whether James ever comes home-not after what he did."

Gail looked up startled. "You mean about not writing?" she said.

John looked away. He couldn't meet her eyes. It seemed as if it were some one else, outside and beyond him, who was doing this thing. But Gail thought he looked away to spare her feelings. Time stopped for her. What had James done? She must know. She urged John on.

"Oh, well, it's nothin' very much," John said at last. "Only I couldn't see as how you would have much use for him, seein' he sold you out the way he did."

"Sold me out? Whatever can you mean?”

"It was the money," John went on in carefully patient tones. "He was dead set on goin' to college. He sort of knew I was crazy about you, Gail, and he offered to give you up if I'd buy him off with the money. I told him I couldn't do that. He could sell you if he wanted to, but I couldn't buy you. I said he could take the money if he wanted to. It was Ma's savings that she had starved and slaved for, and I couldn't touch it anyway. So he took the money and went. I always thought it was kind of hard on you, but I guess education meant more to him than a little summer foolishness. And I guess if he was that kind, you were well rid of him. I always tried to make it up to you, Gail, didn't I? Didn't I? I am mad about you, Gail, insane about you. I'd do anything for you."

Everything had gone black for Gail. Could it be that she should be told this, here of all places, under the copper beech where they had sat in the glamour of the moon, cradled in ecstasy? And this James, who was almost a god to her, could he be a mercenary traitor? Why hadn't she known before? Why hadn't she guessed that this was what his silence meant? John could have told her long ago. But he was shielding James. John only told her now because he was afraid that to-morrow, when James came back, she would let him see the wound he had made upon her life. He was afraid the

old hurt would open up when she saw James again, and in the kindness of his heart he had given her this knowledge of James's rottenness, as a weapon against her own weakness. Traitor! As if he could wound her! Dusk was coming on and the meadow was filled with a thousand sweetnesses. White clover; locust blossoms from across the stream; wild strawberries that had ripened and been crushed in the warm grass. They stabbed her heart. The honey of the locust was like orange blossoms, James had told her once. Traitor! Traitor! He had taught her to believe in love. She laughed a wild, eerie laugh. It sounded odd on those puritanical lips that had been used thus far only to smile kindly and to pray. The echo rang out strangely on the peaceful stillness of the night. John was startled. He peered about hastily in the sweet dusk. He thought he heard a rustle in the cottonwoods on the other side of the stream. The legend of the ghostways came to his mind. On this very spot his father... But the sounds died away. And as they did a sudden consciousness of the lonesomeness of the place came over him. The intimacy of the two of them in the sweet darkness. There was not even a moon, but the creek was a river of stars dropped down from the sky. Under the copper beech the leaves were so thick they couldn't even see the stars. And there stood Gail, tense and rigid, as if she had been turned to stone. Love for James had been put out in her heart. Now his love must be like a torch.

He must touch her and communicate his fire to her. He went to her and made a tight circle about her with his arms. She shivered at his touch, but did not protest. She could see his eyes shining in the darkness. She knew he was offering her his love. His eyes seemed to burn through her. Well, she had been robbed of love. For two years now she had been keeping sleepless guard over an empty treasurehouse. She must snatch at love when she could. She must never let James know that he had stripped her heart. She gave a little cry of abandon as John pulled her to him. Perhaps this was love. A shiver ran over her. John's eyes looked like two torches in the darkness. She cried aloud in fright, and tried to wrench

herself free. Not here. Not in this spot. But his lips found hers and stifled the sound. Somehow the fury of his kisses seemed to revenge her pain. Then she couldn't remember anything except the sweetness of the locusts that were like orange blossoms.

The next day broke hot and sultry. Gail, white and hollow-eyed, moved mechanically about her little bedroom under the rafters, gathering things into a straw suitcase. Pain, which had slept last night as if it had been put to sleep by the powerful narcotic of John's love, was around her heart to-day like a band of hot iron. Her mother, back from the spring-house, saw that Gail had made no attempt to eat breakfast, and climbed the stairs to her room.

"You were late last night, weren't you, Gail?" She stopped as her eyes took in the preparations.

"A little," Gail answered in a dull voice. "I was with John." And then, in answer to her mother's quick look of inquiry: "Yes, we . . . we decided to get married to-day. I was just going out to find you to tell you. I am going to meet him at the parish house at four o'clock."

"But, Gail, I don't understand. Such a sudden decision! And besides, I thought all the time it was James. And, to-day of all days when they say he is coming home."

"Oh, mother, please. You don't understand. It doesn't matter at all about James. I'll be married by the time his train pulls in." She attempted a smile.

There was a furrow of anxiety on Mrs. Haskins's forehead. She didn't understand such a lightning decision. Gail's wedding! She had been looking forward to preparing for it for years. A hope chest of linen, the trousseau! And now Gail announces that it is to take place in a few hours, as if getting married was as usual a thing as picking a dish of strawberries. Well, perhaps true love had come to her at last, and there was no use waiting. John had waited long enough, goodness knows. The wrinkle of anxiety began to disappear. He was such a good, steady fellow, and he managed the farm so well. It might be all for the best.

"Well, for Heaven's sake, Gail, at least give me that lavender organdy of yours, and let me press it. You can't go to the