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

altar in that old black silk." Mrs. Haskins was quite happy now that there were some preparations she could make. She didn't even notice the drawn whiteness of Gail's face as she folded her flowered silk kimono and put it in the suitcase.

At the Trimmer farm, John was hurrying through his chores like a man in a dream. Miraculously had come the consummation of his love. The love that had tortured him for months had turned into the sweetness of fulfilment. This very day he was to be married, and to-night, when the stars came out and the world was fragrant, Gail would be his. He kept whispering her name to himself, living over again the ecstasy of the night before. Of James he did not think at all. Love had swept him completely from his moorings. He was dead to everything except this mastering force.

He scarcely heard old Sam when he came gliding strangely into the yard. It was generally accorded in the neighborhood that old Sam was "away in the mind," and they all did their best for him, letting him pick cherries and vegetables, which he sold to their next-door neighbors or even back to them. Thus they kept him from the place which he most dreaded -the poorhouse. His one topic of conversation was his pigs. But to-day he had more important news to communicate to John. He sidled up to him, and John noticed that one of his queer spells was on him. He was seized with impatience at the old lunatic, and told him to help himself to vegetables and make off. But old Sam was not to be put aside. He drew near and put a trembling hand on John's sleeve. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"John, my boy, I seen your mother last night. She was walking in the ghostways.'

In spite of himself John shivered. There was something uncanny about old Sam. He was plainly under the spell of what he had seen or fancied he had seen. "Yes, sir," he went on in the same husky voice, "it was just dusk and I couldn't make her out very well. First I thought it was one of our own village girls, and then it threw back its head and laughed. Such a queer, wild laugh, I knew it was a ghost. And then I seemed

to see as how it was your mother and I thought as how I saw you there, too, in the shadow. And your mother was kinder beckoning you away from that tree like."

John pulled himself together irritably. What was the old fool up to? Was he a foxy old man, pretending to be crazy in order to earn his living more easily? Was he shrewdly trying to let him know he had seen Gail and him? .Fright seized John. He did not want this old loon going around talking about Gail. Was he after money? He hadn't mentioned Gail's name. It was his mother's ghost, old Sam had said. Strange. And strange, too, that he had said she was warning him away from the tree. The old fellow must have heard of the feud of the brothers over the tree years ago. But how? Suppose Sam wasn't mad at all. There was Gail. He remembered the crackling of the bushes across the creek. If it was money old Sam wanted, it might be well to be on the safe side. Yet old Sam certainly looked crazy as he rocked himself back and forth muttering in his toothless gums.

John bade him wait and crossed to the kitchen. In a cigar-box on the mantelshelf was a bright five-dollar gold piece. For years he had kept it for good luck. He came back and gave it to old Sam. The latter had come out of his trance and was amusing himself making designs upon the dirt with bits of colored glass and a marble or two which he had in his pocket. He took the gold piece absently and went on with the work. John, watching, saw he was making a skull and cross-bones. He fitted the gold piece in to make one of the eyes. John was startled. Did the shrewd old fox mean that the gold would cover his eyes, that the gold would keep him from seeing? But no. How could his cracked brain think out an idea like that? John went off, leaving him to his childish play. When he came back an hour or two later, old Sam had disappeared, but he had left the design marked out there in the dirt. John picked up the gold piece, brushed off the dust, shined it on his coat-sleeve, and returned it to the cigar-box. He would give it to the woman who was sweeping and garnishing the house in preparation for his bride. His bride! The thought was like wine.

By half past three the sultry heat of the day had become unbearable, and ominous rumblings of thunder split the stillness. The leaves were turning their silvery backs to the breeze-a certain sign of rain. John, dressing carefully in his Sunday best, pretended not to notice the signs of the storm. What did a storm matter anyway? It would hold off at least until they got to the church and it would probably clear in the early evening. Down-stairs, the voice of the scrub-woman was raised in altercation. Then there came the cracked, senile tones of old Sam. Probably he had come back after his gold piece, and was accusing the woman of stealing it. John hurried down-stairs, but old Sam was not concerned with earthly things. He was shaking with terror. He had seen a man in the ghostways. It was Trimmer himself, old Sam vowed, standing on the very spot where his dead wife had stood the night before. There must be some terrible evil afoot. He implored John to go and see for himself. John shrugged the suggestion aside impatiently. "You're touched by the heat, Sam," he said. "I have to go to my wedding. I can't be chasin' ghosts."

And yet, he told himself a second later, there could be no harm in passing by the north meadow on the way to the village. It wasn't far. And if old Sam was going to be spreading these crazy stories, it would be well at least to be able to say that he had seen the ghostways with his own eyes and that there was no truth in such tales.

The storm was coming on faster than he had realized. The wind was shrieking around the house with angry violence. The shrillness of it brought back to his mind the night of his mother's death. Oh, damn! Old Sam would have him stark crazy with his visions of the dead. It was growing very black. He remembered that when he was a little boy he had always been afraid when a thunder-storm came that it was the end of the world. Little branches, whipped off the trees by the wind, whirled sharply against him. He was in the ghostways now. Then he stopped. Under the copper beech was a man. Could it be his father? The storm

and the shadow of the tree made it difficult to see. Then his heart began to beat again. The man was James. So he had come. Well, they might as well get this business over here and now. He would tell him about Gail. There was a brilliant flash of lightning, and in the brightness John saw that his brother's face was not pleasant to look upon. Probably he had heard the news in the village.

"Well," John began, "this is a surprise. But you're just in time for my wedding. I'm on my way to marry Gail. She is waiting for me now at the parsonage."

"No, she isn't waiting for you, you dog. I know what you told her. My train got in earlier than I expected. I went right to her house, knowing that the two years were up and that I could claim her without a brother's malediction on my head. And then, instead of flying into my arms, she withered me with her scorn. I begged her to tell me why she hated me so. I almost went down on my knees to her. And then she told me. So I came to find you, and she is coming here as soon as the storm is over to choose between us.'

John's face went dark and the fury of the storm seemed to run in his veins. It was unbelievable that he should lose her like this on the very threshold of possession. He would see himself in hell first. In the glare of the lightning he was dreadful to look upon.

"Choose between us," he shouted. "She has already chosen, you swine. You've come a day too late. She is mine, I tell you. Here . . . last night . . ." He choked in his rage, and the wind carried the words away.

James went white. He sprang toward John, then stopped aghast. There was a blinding flash, a tearing and rending of the air. Violent light. A giant cleaving and smiting the earth. Then everything went black before him.

When Gail crept out to the ghostways in the cool wet evening she found them lying there. James, stunned and unconscious, lay a little distance away. But John was quite dead, with a great branch of the tree across his chest, as if it had reached out a mighty arm and struck him down.

TH

HE autobiography of Emma Eames, aptly called "Some Memories and Reflections," is interesting, and the portraits and illustrations add to its charm and value. Madame Eames is an American who was born in China and made her operatic début in Paris. She came from a long line of Puritan ancestors, was brought up in Maine with ascetic severity, began her music studies in Boston, completed her preparatory work in France, for years had her home in Italy, and now lives in Paris. Her character, by heredity and early training, is 100 per cent Yankee, and on this solid foundation was erected a superstructure of Continental experience and accomplishment. She is at home in Parisian society and in Maine villages. She has a Continental mind and an American heart.

She was a friend of Pen Browning, whose famous father wrote a line in "The Ring and the Book" that accurately describes her:

The good girl with the velvet in her voice. Exactly so: she has a voice of velvet and a heart of gold.

Not only is this book interesting because it is the story of a successful operatic career, in which most of the famous singers from 1890 to 1909 appear, but Madame Eames's observations on life, men and women, nerve-control, ideals of conduct, and so on, will make a general appeal. Furthermore, her fame as a singer brought her into contact with many distinguished persons and personages; her conversations with Queen Victoria, and especially with King Edward VII, are entertaining.

Years ago, in Cleveland, I had a long talk with her mother, when that lady was nearly ninety. She was sprightly and vigorous, and told me about her experiences with her daughter in Paris, just before and after the début; her narrative is corroborated by the book. It is an exciting story.

Gounod lived to see his opera "Faust" performed more than five hundred times; but I doubt if he ever heard or saw a better Marguerite than the young American girl, Emma Eames, whom he personally coached for the part. The difference between her interpretation and that of her rival, Emma Calvé, and I heard both many times, is interesting. Calvé was an amazingly effective Carmen; she let herself go. But as Marguerite she gave the impression of a sophisticated creature pretending to be innocent; it was clever and sensational acting, and diverted the audience, but it never created the illusion. Emma Eames simply was Marguerite; it was so perfect an interpretation that one forgot the actress in the part.

In her accounts of "command" performances in England, Madame Eames mentions that on two occasions Jean de Reszké had "a strange and sudden illness," which prevented him from appearing; once they changed the opera, and once the tenor. Although I never saw the great Jean off the stage, while Emma Eames knew him intimately, I suspect that it is easy to account for these illnesses. He could not refuse to accept the invitation, given some time ahead. But it was his invariable custom never to appear before an audience except in a regular rôle on the professional operatic stage. His brother Edouard, who had a gorgeous voice, frequently sang during the season at Sunday-night concerts, at church weddings, and elsewhere. Jean, never. I think he was well aware that so far as mere voice was concerned, his gifts were not remarkable; anyhow, he never chose to meet that test. But as a great operasinger, with his noble presence, his splendid dignity and knightly charm, his uncanny intelligence, his amazing gifts of expression and interpretation-there he was indeed incomparable. He knew himself too well to appear at a disadvantage; and a "command" performance, in a