Not stopping for breakfast, Rebecca snatched a hat and went to paradise. Most of the way she ran. Paddling over to her island, she gathered up all her treasures and one by one sunk them relentlessly in the depths of the pond. Even the china dog with one leg and three-eighths of a

tail was not spared. She filled up the precious treasure-cave, and cast its bright shell-pavement into the water, obliterating the last trace of her brief occupancy. Thus did Rebecca abolish paradise. And when she had done these things she sat herself down and wept bitterly.

T

HE fields were full of late clover too sparse to be cut or of corn-shocks with pumpkin-vines sprawling between. The great fat pumpkins looked almost bright enough to send out a light of their own. They were a part of the fall day, like the asters in the fence-corners and the grayedged clouds that idled across the sky. A poplar, that maiden lady among trees, standing beside the road all alone, was so ruffled by the wind that its leaves stood straight up and appeared to be made of silver, and the mourning veil of a solitary walker blew out like a pirate flag.

She caught it, pulled it into place, and tramped on steadily. She was a strong old woman. There was not much gray in the hair under her bonnet-ruche and her cheeks matched the frosted blackberry leaves along the fence. She was dressed like any well-to-do Berks County matron out for a day, but the basket in her hand was at odds with her clothes, for it was one of the brightly-flowered affairs made of aloe-fibres that tourists bring from the Texas border. When one saw the basket one did not wonder that its owner kept looking about as though she had not lately come that way.

But she advanced as purposefully as a bird returning to its nest, and when the road ran up a hill she walked faster. At the top she stood still, looking as the bird might on finding the important tree cut down. As she was a Dutchwoman her face was unruffled and she did not exclaim, but her thoughts were almost distinct enough to sound like a voice in the wide spaces of the fields. She went on after a minute. A

little way beyond was a farm-house, a fine place with all the trees in the yard whitewashed up to the first fork and lines of oyster-shells around the flower-beds. Here she stopped again and stared.

A small girl came around the corner of the house. "Who lives here?" the stranger asked. The child hung her head, peeped out from her pink sun-bonnet, and scuttled back like a little animal getting to cover. The stranger continued to look about until another woman appeared and stood before her with a watchful and neutral aspect; then she repeated, "Who lives here?"

"Ephraim Shultz's family."
"What Shultz?"

"Isaac Shultz vas his father."

"Isaac Shultz." The stranger seemed to be trying to remember something. Suddenly her face lighted up and she stepped forward. "Katie Dunkleberger!" she exclaimed joyfully. The other woman was not responsive. "Don't you know me, Katie? I used to live here. Don't you remember Magdalena Heil?”

They exchanged a long look; then the second woman smiled and put out her hand over the fence. "Vell, I declare!" she said. "Come right in. Vere did you come from?" In the parlor with her bonnet off the visitor observed the gilt paper, the organ, and the framed wax wreath on the wall. "I guess it looks stranche to you," the hostess said. "How long since you left?"

"Fifty years last May."

The two women gazed at each other again. Between the past that they had in common and the present their lives had not been unlike, but they did not know it, and the sight of each other's altered faces made

them realize that the common past was very long ago. When Magdalena spoke her words were ordinary but her voice was solemn. "You're right it's stranche. When I come to the top of the hill ant the big woods wasn't here I didn't know right where I was. Ant the house was nothing but logs when we had it. It had no porch ant no paint."

"That's so," said Mrs. Shultz cheerfully. “Isaac had the veather-boards put to it ven ve come here first. Ve vasn't married yet ven you vent off. He vas chust going vith me then."

"How is Isaac getting along?"

"I buried him vill be sixteen years the 30th of next month. That's his wreath in the frame."

"Ant you live here yet?"

"Yes, vith my son Ephraim. He is my only child. He married late, but he has a nice vife ant he gets along. They vent to the city to-day ant I keep the children."

The stranger looked out of one window and then another, as though trying to harmonize what she saw with some mental picture widely different. Mrs. Shultz became impatient for the due return of information. "How have you been?" she said at last, as a start. "Good."

"Ven did you come?" "Last night."

"Vere do you live now, Magdalena ?” "I live West. I guess you don't know about it. I forgot how long it is since I left," said the stranger as though she were acknowledging the duty of speech. "Well, Henry ant I we went off to farm, ant first we went to Ohio ant it didn't go right, so we went along until we got away out ant then we stayed. Las Cruces is the post-office." "That's a funny name. Do you farm?" "All the boys farm but one. Henry lives with me on the old place ant William is near by, ant Maggie ant Mary they are married ant live near too. Only Chon is an enchineer ant he has a chob at Chihuahua."

"Does your Henry live yet?" Magdalena's eyes reddened as she shook her head, and there was a sympathetic silence in which the other old eyes filled too. "Yes," Mrs. Shultz sighed the monosyllable by which the Dutch soul expresses patient wonder at the decrees of Providence.

"Then I guess you find him up there too. Vell, he has lots of company."

The light through the green blinds was as cool as a sea-cave and the room was almost as still. From outside came the odor of apples fallen from an old, old apple-tree, the throaty comments of a hen pecking about, and children's voices. These two women, accustomed to long, busy, silent hours, felt no need of much speech even after fifty years. In the pauses their thoughts moved slowly.

"What's become with Elmira Miller ?" asked Magdalena.

"They buried her it's twenty-five years already. Her son he lives down the road a little."

"How is Sallie Leinbach ?"

"She vent off," said Mrs. Shultz, her pleasant face growing severe. "Her folks never said anything, ant they are all dead

now."

Magdalena tried again. "Does Lizzie Keller live yet ?"

"Lizzie Keller? I don'd know such a name."

"Ach, yes, Katie, Lizzie Keller that used to go to school. She was always such a good reader. She had red hair ant she lived down on the creek."

Mrs. Shultz nodded in a deliberative manner. "Yes, I know now," she said. "She got married ant moved to the city soon after you left, ant they say she got so stylish.”

"I didn't think right how long it is since. I vas here," Magdalena repeated sadly.

Suddenly there was an outbreak in the yard. A large white dog dashed by the window, barking the bark that means, "I assume that you are respectable until I see that you are not"; three little boys followed, running in a business-like way; the small girl pursued them, her bonnet-strings flapping behind her; they all disappeared around the house and presently were heard the notes of a hand-organ. It was old, but in the country silence it sounded loud and gay.

The two women went out on the porch, which served as a box for the performance. The children were in a row along the fence, one boy on the gate and the little girl looking anxiously through the pickets, and the dog was quiet for the moment, observing, though he evidently had much more to say. Out in the dust the organ-grinder worked away at his tune; he played three times, and then looked up at the porch pleadingly. Mrs. Shultz regarded him with calm interest and seemed to have no idea of personal responsibility; the eldest boy opened the gate and the dog squeezed through ahead of him; Magdalena began to hunt for her pocket. "I guess I give him a little something," she murmured. When she put the pennies into his hand over the fence the young fellow smiled beautifully and spoke in a hesitating way. "He says dare he have a drink," said Magdalena.

"Go fetch the dipper,' ," Mrs. Shultz ordered the youngest boy. The children found it hard to decide whether to stay where they were and keep their eyes upon the musician or to follow their brother, who in his capacity of Ganymede might do something unusual and noteworthy. Those who remained heard their grandmother ask, "Could you make out vat he said?"

"Yes. Henry used to have such Mexicans to work for him. They were fine with the stock ant they talked something like this fellow. It wasn't chust like it, but if you could get along with them you could make this out, too."

"Can you talk it ?"
"Chust a few words."

The small boy's courage gave out at the last moment, so the eldest one had to give the dipper to the Italian. He drank gratefully, then he looked up at Magdalena, who had understood him, the organ clicked as he changed the tune, and the comfortable Dutch yard filled with the old air of longing and farewell.

Sconto col sangue mio

L'amor che posi in te!

He shrugged his shoulders to ease the strap and started down the road, still playing

Non ti scordar di me! Leonora, addio!

The four little heads turned to stare after him, the dog, who had been silent until now, perhaps under the weight of some canine

emotion, barked amiably, and the women moved as though they had been still for a long time. "He is a strancher here, too, I guess," said Mrs. Shultz, smiling. Magdalena made no comment. "I better start now," she said. "No, you ain'd going yet, here ven you chust come. You stay ant eat dinner. I make it right avay. Vere do you vant to go, anyhow?"

"Up the road a little."

"To see some of the folks?"

"I thought I'd go in the graveyard," Magdalena said as though she were uncovering a deep reserve.

Mrs. Shultz gave her a gentle, comprehending look. "Vell, you stay ant eat, ain'd? Then you can go," she said softly.

Though the dinner was good and her friend begged her to come back she was glad to start away by herself. The fields did not take what fell to them and return their fruits more unquestioningly than Magdalena Heil accepted the incidents of every passing day; but even the fields may be puzzled by the cruelty of the sun, the denial of the rain. It was a three-mile walk to the church, and when she had gone half-way she sat on a warm rock to rest. She had been there for some minutes before she noticed the organgrinder stretched in the shade of a wildcherry tree and watching her with friendly, dog-like eyes. She beckoned to him. "Are you hungry?" she asked. He nodded and smiled, and she took her own lunch out of the gay basket. "Might sit down here ant eat it," she said. It was a proof of her loneliness that she liked the presence of this gentle alien who could not tell her anything that would disappoint her.

He laid the heavy organ on the grass, sat down, and opened the package eagerly. Though visibly surprised to find himself admitted to so much acquaintance, he accepted it with the grace of his gallant and flexible people; his look was an invitation, and she said, "I did eat, chust go on," in answer to it. She asked questions and he explained, in Italian and soft English and free gestures, that he was getting over a fever. "Ver' sick," he said. "Hospital long time; then not can make road. Now I go ting-a-ling to get money; an' soon I go home-to Naple'."

She nodded; her face was maternal. "How much must you have?” she asked,

and then she pointed to a ring on his brown hand. "I guess you're married."

The young fellow shook his head, smiling and conscious. "Pretties' girl in Naple'!" he exclaimed joyfully. "An' she expec' me!" "You are awful stranche here," remarked Magdalena, getting out her purse. "You take this to help along a little." The size of the gift made him forget his English; he could only say, "Graz', Signora, graz'!" and look at her with eyes full of facile devotion. He watched for a sign that she wished to be rid of him, but she made none, so he stayed where he was, looking into the sky with the happiest thoughts shining in his face of a bay incredibly blue and a mountain-top with smoke above it, long warm hours of doing nothing in the sun, and the prettiest girl in Naple'. Magdalena, reminded of Henry's lean Mexicans, had her vision too: a plain where the winds played with the dust, cotton-woods thick with mistletoe, and a river with quicksands and a thread of water. These two had wandered together from distant places; their bodies were side by side; but in a moment of leisure their souls flew gently apart, each to its home.

Magdalena soon said good-bye and hurried away. In this day of new things she expected the sight of the old stone church like the unaltered face of a friend, and she grew more and more eager. Far down the road she could see the graveyard, a patch of green spotted with white. "It's fuller than what I thought," she said to herself, "ant much bigger." Then she turned the corner. The old building was gone. A flourishing red brick structure stood under the same trees.

She pushed open the gate and went in, bewildered; for the first few minutes she did not think at all. It seemed as though the changes had gone down into the nature of things and that there was no real welcome for her anywhere. She had a picture in her mind of the slope under a young cedar where she had left the baby lying, but in this strange place she did not know where to turn for him.

She tried. She decided to look under every cedar, and went from one to the other startling the grasshoppers in the dry grass. In the new part of the cemetery were some of her schoolmates, their ages-they had been old-and their marriages set forth

above them, and she got the news of several in this way. Among the old graves marked with sandstone she found her father and mother. The inscriptions were almost gone, little lichens grew in the corners of the stones and the mounds were rough with clover. As she stood beside them a few tears came and she thought, "They were young to go," with compassion because they had been summoned away so early, as though they had been her children and had missed something-not something important, but a pleasure.

There were many young trees, but not one sheltered a small brown stone. When she remembered that the cedar would be grown old and large she felt as though she had entered on a new stretch of possibilities and searched again with energy; then she began to wander about, hoping to chance upon it. The afternoon was nearly gone when she sat down on the church steps, her mouth quivering. She felt as though the child had run away and might get into danger before she could find him. "He favored Henry so," she thought, "ant I don't know what Henry would say to it now that he is lost."

A tepid wind that promised rain was blowing and clouds were creeping up over the thrifty fields which had done their duty for the year. The country was as peaceful as a clean and satisfied soul, promising no wide outlook and no exigency of flood or fire. Some children went down the road on their way from school; a spring-wagon jogged by; a couple of field-hands passed with their corn-knives over their shoulders. "Soon they are all at home," she thought, "ant it takes me four days to get home, ant I daresn't start until I find the baby." Magdalena suddenly hated this well-tilled Beulah.

A carriage stopped in front of the church and the driver climbed out and pushed open the gate. He was a very old man with a fleece of white hair hanging over his collar, he walked feebly, shuffling his feet, and his eyes dwelt upon the church, as though he knew it well and loved it. His good-evening to Magdelana was kindly, but she was so absorbed in looking at him that she did not answer at once. "I guess you don't know me, Mr. Breidegam," she said in a tremulous voice. "You married me ant my husband when we were all young."

When she had told him who she was he was glad to see her and wanted to know all about Henry and their children. "It's not often you meet such an old friend when you are as far along as we are," he said after she had finished. "You don't find many here that you left."

"No," she answered sadly. "No. It's not like it was."

"That's the way when we get old," he said. “The folks drop off and we have to get along with the children as long as we are here."

"We thought sure we'd get back soon if only to see the folks," she said. "We talked about it every year, ant every year we let it 'It's such good farm-land selling,' Henry would say. 'I grudche the cash for the tickets.' Or I'd want to wait for the children to get bigger. It was always something. But we expected to come, ant I used to think about Katie Dunkleberger ant Lizzie Keller so much, ant I wanted to show 'em the babies ant all. Still we didn't get to do it. Then the children were getting married, ant Henry died, ant I had no heart for it. Till here this summer I thought I chust had to come, ant now I am so stranche I don't feel at home at all. The place is that altered ant the folks are nearly all of 'em dead or gone away; ant Katie Dunkleberger was real kind, but she didn't know me at first ant she said too how stranche I was; ant there was such a Dago come along with an organ, ant I could see she thought I was chust about as outlandish as he; ant he made me think about my home, ant I felt that homesick

"Magdalena sobbed.

The minister's face expressed both dignity and loneliness; it was clear that he knew the utter isolation of the old. "Won't you go back soon?" he asked gently.

She wiped her eyes and tried to stop crying. "I come to see the baby," she said, "ant I can't find him."

"What baby?" the old man asked, looking a little alarmed.

"My first. He died before we left. You buried him, Mr. Breidegam. I guess you don't remember, it's so long already. I used to think so much about him when we first moved away, ant I always wanted to get back to look after him; But the others coming ant all, I didn't feel so bad after

while. Then here last spring my youngest son's wife had a boy looks so much like mine I thought I chust had to see him, ant I come all this way ant I hunted all over the graveyard ant I can't find the place!"

"Come," he said. "We'll look again. I think we can find him." His manner was that of a gentle master, and she followed hopefully. "The ground sloped," she said, "ant there was a cedar-tree over it. It was such a little place."

While they hunted he kept talking: "I suppose you were surprised to see the new church. It's ten years now since it was built. It's a fine church. I don't preach any more, but I like to come over and look at it sometimes. The graveyard is bigger, too; they took in two fields, and it's crowding up again. They have levelled it in some places and a good many trees had to come down to make room. Look here!" Heindicated a stump so lately cut that the wood was all pinkish yellow. Within a few feet of it was a patch of myrtle quite covering the ground with its strong green leaves and nearly burying a little worn brown stone.

She threw herself down and dragged at the vines until they came away in a mat, all tangled with dry grass and weeds; she rubbed hard at the stone with her handkerchief; she could make out "Sohn" and " Jahr" and "H-inr- Heil." "Thank you," she said.

He said good-by and the carriage went crawling down the road without a look from her for she was on her knees again almost before he had turned away. The stems hurt her hands, but she plunged them into the green drift and pulled out every weed and twig; she felt among the roots for pebbles; she rubbed the stone as though it were a mirror and pruned the vines away from its foot. When everything was neat she sat beside it for a while.

At last she got up and left the graveyard and started down the road. The clouds were heavy; in the west streaks of salmoncolor contended with the gray and a few drops fell. The fields, growing vague in the twilight, looked as though they were resting after labor. Magdalena Heil, tramping along on her tired feet, felt in her own self the peace of work completed. The harvest was past; the summer was ended; she also could go home.