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

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 ghost ways."

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.