"Yes."

"You always do think of the right thing for Norton, Hilda."

Hilda's heavy eyes did not brighten. In these weeks her face had changed mysteriously. The velvety crimson had faded from her cheeks. Her mouth was pinched and gray.

"What have you planned for the afternoon?"

"Nothing, Granny."

"Won't you go somewhere with me? A little drive or shopping?"

"Just as you like, Granny. It does n't It does n't matter."

"Hilda, child, what does matter so terribly these days?" I put my arms about her; but it was like clasping a woman of stone. "You are n't breaking your dear, foolish heart over a whim!"

"No, Granny. If I'm breaking it at all, I 'm breaking it on a fact." A wintry gleam crossed her face. "Don't fret over me, dear. I do well enough. Where shall we go?"

"Hilda, I don't want to plague you, but it hurts me so to' see you suffer!"

"Well, I'm a pig to let you see it, Granny. I'm a pig, anyway; that 's the whole difficulty. I'm so greedy I can't just take my little warmed-over slice, and say, "Thank you kindly; this is a plenty.' It is n't a plenty; I 'm starved out."

"But, Hilda-"

"Don't say, 'But, Hilda,' in that bland mother-superior tone!" She drew back, looking into my face. Her eyes hardened. "Would n't it be the same with you? Would n't you fight with your last breath for your whole loaf? Would n't it just about finish you to know that you never could have it, that another woman had it, every crumb?"

There she had me cornered, beautifully cornered.

"Yes, Hilda. I could n't live and stand it. Once I knew how it feels, only for a week or so. It was long before we were married. There was another girl at our academy, a beauty, and I imagined that Frederic Yes, I know. Even that one little week-it nearly killed me. I never could laugh about it afterward, though Frederic was always teasing me for my jealousy. I can't laugh about it even

now."

"One week! Yet I 've lived and stood

"Yes, he 's got to, Hilda." I was choking back tears as I kissed her. "But don't I keep telling you that he does love you dearly?"

"He ought to tell me so, and tell me now."

"Yes," said I, grimly. "He ought to tell you now.” For the first time in my life a deep, resentful bewilderment filled me toward my dear, oblivious son-my son, who sat before his glowing hearth, the door shut forever on his bleak days; my son, who could see all his new happiness, yet could not see the lonely question in his wife's young eyes. A foolish question; yet when did the woman who loves ever ask a wise one?

Suddenly the senseless misery of it overpowered me. Another minute and I'd have spoken out; I 'd have smashed all my high-flown vows to splinters, and told it all.

'Hilda, we must n't talk of this any longer. We must n't think about it. Put on your cloak. We'll go somewhere, anywhere."

"What's the use, Granny?"

"Because you must get your mind off this-this whimsy. The quickest way is to go and stare at something, no matter what. Stare till you 're so tired you can't think or hear or feel. That new comedy at the Trianon will do. Come."

That hour of the comedy! Through the long, sparkling first act we sat there side by side, like a worried old ghost and an impassive younger one. Not one word of that crisp dialogue reached my ear. I was back on my treadmill, blundering round and round that merciless question. Beside me, Hilda's sleeve was warm against my hand. She sat so close that I heard her faint breathing; yet in her white stillness she seemed a thousand leagues away. Never in all my life have I felt so hopelessly alone.

It was half-way through the second act

when I caught a curious, pungent odor. I have a very keen sense of smell.

At first it was just the slightest acrid tang, a breezy whiff that took me back fifty years and more to a slope of halfcleared woodland, a hot wind in my face, a hazy October sky. I shut my eyes and sniffed in satisfaction at the fine, spicy fragrance of burning brush. Then I smiled at my foolishness. Who, pray tell, would be burning brush on Thirty-ninth Street in front of a nouveau-art theater?

Even in that instant the man beside me turned a blank, yellow-white face toward me and muttered, and a woman in front sprang to her feet, then sat down quickly. Then I knew.

The

There was no panic at first. Instead, every rustle and whisper stopped. audience sat moveless, frozen in their seats. It was as if the arched, glittering ceiling were a dome of magic, a vast vacuum-bell in which we could neither speak nor move. In that great, thronged place there was not one sound except the soft clip of the comedian's feet as he took the last steps of his dance.

Then, as if moved by an invisible spring, the audience rose, and began to move decorously toward the aisles.

The orchestra crashed into the next number. The chorus trooped on the stage, laughing and shouting above mad terror. Nobody cried out. Nobody seemed to push or hurry. Past us went those blank, gray lines of faces, staring always upward to where a blue, gauzy wisp curled high across the gilded wall.

'Come, Hilda." I heard my own shaking whisper. "We must go, too. We have n't much time, dear. We have n't much time."

Hilda did not move. Perhaps she did

not hear.

"Hilda, child! We must get away. We have n't much time."

Hilda did not stir. She sat as if carved in one with her chair. Her face, pallid, expressionless, was like a mask.

"Hilda!" Then terror shook me-terror of those ghastly faces streaming by, the choking smoke in my throat, the blaring music, my own utter helplessness against this stony, silent girl. Then a dreadful thought came: Hilda did not think of saving herself; Hilda did not

care.

"Hilda, you must help me get away. The theater is on fire."

Then at last Hilda roused. She staggered to her feet.

"Get behind me, Granny. Put your arms around my waist. Hold tight." She pushed into the crowd. Foot by foot we were carried on in that grim, urging flood. Nobody spoke. Nobody struggled to forge ahead. Like doomed things, mute before certainty, we drifted on.

Out rang a woman's voice, piercing

scream on scream.

The deathly hush was shattered by a thousand frenzied cries. The crowd stopped, swayed, then broke into a writhing, shrieking mass. Every drop of courage went out of me. I felt myself thrust back, suffocated, crushed.

"Just a minute, Granny. Just one minute more."

Hilda caught me up in her left arm, grasping me like a child. With her right arm she beat her way ahead. She fought out right and left. One man pushed her roughly back. With her shut fist she struck him in the face. He reeled out of her way. Now we had reached the edge of the crowd. Now, with a powerful lift, Hilda swung me through, into a niche under the stairs. I lay against the wall, struggling for breath.

Hilda grasped me again.

"One more pull, Granny. Hold hard, dear."

Again that fighting, smothering mob, those shrieking voices; then a flare of daylight, a gush of blessed, icy air in my face, over my head the blessed, open sky.

"We'll hurry right up to my apartment. It 's nearer than your house. Now, dear."

She swept me through the crazy horde that blocked the pavement, across the street, then into the nearest taxi. She sat close beside me, rubbing my cold, trembling hands. Her own hands were steady and calm. Her face was set and colorless, as dull as stone.

She put me into the easiest chair, before the fire. She tucked a rug over my knees, and poured the tea that a flustered maid hurried to bring. She was as gentle as an angel. For all her real consciousness of me, she might have been a world away.

I tried to swallow my tea. Somehow it would n't go down.

"Is it too hot, Granny?" "No, Hilda, I can't. What about the other people? Those who could n't-" Hilda went to the telephone.

"The department says that no lives were lost, Granny. A great many people were hurt in the crush, but no fatal injuries are reported. Drink your tea, dear."

I tried again. It was no use. "I can't, Hilda. O my child, my child, can't you be just a little thankful?" "I suppose so. I'm glad you were n't hurt, Granny." Her soft cheek dropped against my hand. 'As for myself—”

"Hilda! When we all love you so dearly! When you 're the joy of all our hearts!"

"You 're a nice, untruthful duck, Granny." Again it came, that stubborn, weary whisper: "But it is n't one bit of use. What real difference could it make if I"- Then her bitter young face melted with a rare sweetness. "But it would make all the difference in the world if anything had happened to you, Granny.

I should have reasoned with her, reproached her, maybe. That this young, splendid creature, with all of life opening before her, should dare not care! Instead, I felt again that deep, bewildered. anger toward my son-my dear, careless son, who took his largess of joy as complacently as the air he breathed, and with as little gratitude. Surely Norton might have thought, he might have known. Yet when did men ever think? When did they ever know? Always we give, and they take, as the wheat takes the sunlight, with no more question or concern. be sure, that 's quite the most sensible way the wheat can behave. If only we women could learn that before we get to be seventy-six, going on seventy-seven!

Το

I tried to speak again. I had a dim notion of arguing it out with her; but the Fates stooped and caught the whole tangled skein from my hands. There was a ring at the door, then a rush of feet down the hall. Past the astounded maid, in burst Norton-Norton, white-faced, wildeyed, bare-kneed, an outrageous figure in running-drawers and a pink-silk shirt. Luckily somebody had held him at the gymnasium door long enough to throw a fur coat over his shoulders, else he 'd have been arrested before he could cross the drive. He caught me in his arms.

"Mother, I 've just heard! You were in that theater fire! And Hilda-where is she? O Hilda!" He dropped me instantly, and sprang across the room to his wife.

"Hilda! You were n't killed! You were n't even hurt!" He hung over her, stammering like a great school-boy. "Lord! but the soul was frightened out of me! I thought-I don't know what I thought." He stooped and seized her lax hands. "Hilda, why don't you speak to me?" His voice shook for tenderness on the little name.

Hilda had not moved. She did not seem to breathe. Her blue eyes burned darkly on his face.

"We were n't hurt one bit, Norton," she said finally, with an effort. "I 'm sorry you were needlessly disturbed."

"Needlessly disturbed!'" Norton tried to laugh. "Well, I was a bit upset. To think of you-you-" he choked. Then he sobbed out: "If anything had happened to you! If anything ever did happen!"

"Why, Norton!" Hilda stared at his working face. Her dull face lit with a piteous, frightened gleam. "Why, Norton! Would it matter like that, dear? Could it matter-"

"Could it matter?" Norton laughed rather savagely. "Well, no. No more than losing my eyes, say, or having the soul torn out of me by inches. Merest trifle."

"Well, but I 've never supposedHilda gripped his wrists and pushed him back. She stared into his eyes with the peering eyes of a stranger. "I've never dreamed, Norton. If I mean all that to you, why have you never told me so?"

"Told you? Told you what?" Poor Norton! He stood gaping, stupidly puzzled. "Why should I? Could n't you see for yourself?"

“No, I did n't see.”

"You mean that all this time you 've thought-you 've let yourself imagine-" Norton stuttered helplessly. And then

No, it was not honorable in Norton. It was not faithful to the dead. He should have held his tongue, and let that foolish, greedy child beat out her life against those bars of silence. And yetoh, let's be thankful that, when a man does speak, he tells it all; that when the

time comes, he will burst out, swept past all bounds, royally shameless, brutal in his truth!

"You-you-you!"-the words jerked out of him in tearing gasps-"you thought you did n't count! And you 're the light I see by, you 're the air I breathe. Tell you? Why in thunder should I? Could n't you see for yourself that you 're everything-everything? Don't you know what you 've done for me? You lifted me out of the hell that Gertrude made for me. You've given me hope, and the chance to forget. You 've saved the soul alive in me. And you think I should have told you all this word by word! Dare say you wanted a blue-print. Why, you -you-you infernal little fool!" Then, I suppose, the absurd, preposterous pity of it came upon him. Down he went on his knees, and buried his sobbing face in her lap. But Hilda lifted her head. Even as I stumbled from the room, I saw the flame of life flow back into that white face, as if his words had poured the very fire of life into her veins.

I have n't the

I GOT away somehow. slightest recollection how. Then I was back in my own house, and sitting somewhat limply by my own fire. And then, with the queerest Alice-in-Wonderland feeling, things began to happen all over again. Up from the hall sounded hurrying steps and loud voices. In came Eliza, with a face of amazement. At her heels rushed my children, Charles Edward and Peter and Gwendolen, all breathless and terror-stricken. They swarmed down on me like three great babies, and shrieked demented questions, and upset my tea. Charles Edward got there first, but Peter unfilially punched him out of the way, and snatched me. Gwendolen sank on the floor and clung to my skirts and crouched there, sobbing great, dreadful, tearing sobs, and crying great, splashy tears all over her face. And Charles Edward gripped my shoulders and kept saying, "O Mother! O Mother!" as if he could never say the words enough.

"Please, children, I 'm so tired, don't make such an uproar! Yes, I was a little frightened, but not even singed."

"But you were in that dreadful mob! O Mother, Mother!"

"Well, I got out; at least Hilda

"We were just dressing for the Varick dinner when Charles Edward heard," quavered Gwendolen. She clutched aimlessly at the long, mud-spotted tail of her new orchid brocade. "We did n't wait for our motor or call a taxi or anything. We just ran."

"Bareheaded, of course, and bare shoulders! You 're worse than Norton. Charles Edward, what are you carrying under your arm?"

"I guess it 's Gwen's carriage shoes," said Charles Edward, meekly. "Félicie chased me down the front steps with 'em, and I tucked 'em under my arm."

I

"You 've tucked all the family wits under your arm, I 'd say. Such doings! Don't gulp so, son. I'm just as alive as I ever was. Stop sobbing, Gwen." tried to pet them and scold them and pacify them all at once, and it was considerable of a. chore. "Peter, you'll be late for your theater party if you don't hurry. Charles Edward, take off that wet coat, and let Eliza dry it. Gwendolen, look at your slippers. The very idea! Come into my room at once."

Gwendolen followed, quivering, submissive.

'Put on a pair of my black satin slippers. Then you and Charles Edward can go straight on to the Varick dinner. Tut! tut! Of course you will not stay with me to-night. Ridiculous! No, this once it does n't matter if your slippers don't match your gown. Yes, Eliza, you can pull them on, if you tug with all your might."

"Eliza need not tug at all. Your slippers are too large, if anything, Mother." Gwen mopped her eyes and crammed a mauve, silken foot into my narrow shoe. Then she went to my dressing-table, and mopped her blurred face once more. Through the mirror her eyes met mine with a long, questioning, meaning gaze.

"Was n't Norton terribly alarmed for Hilda, Mother?"

I looked at Gwendolen. She might as well know. Really, she quite deserved to. For that matter, she 'd probably find it all out, anyway.

"I think, Gwen, that Norton is the

most completely happy creature that breathes. Unless it 's Hilda herself."

"I see."

Gwendolen patted her fair braids. Through the mirror her keen eyes never left my own.

"And Norton will keep on being happy always, for Hilda has blotted it all out for him-all that misery, all that hateful dread and shame. Norton has built again. He'll live out his days in serenity, in honor. Mother!" Gwen turned on me sharply. "Is it always so? Does it never make any difference to a man, the great, contented simpletons they are? Can they always build again?"

"Yes, they can always build again."

"It is n't fair." Gwen's breath came short. There was a baffled, frightened gleam in her eyes. "It's too cruelly unfair! There's only the one real love for us women, only the one April, only the one nest; but the men- Why is it? How can they, Mother?"

"Because they 're men, that's all. That's the only reason I know, dear." I looked at Gwendolen.

Yes, I know she 's the magnificent Mrs.

Charles Edward Wentworth, and she is beautiful and high bred and charming, and I stand in awe of her beauty and her charm, just as her little nieces do. But as she stood there, with her flushed, tense face, her angry, shaking hands, she was n't my imperious daughter-in-law any longer. She was my little, scared girl. And I wanted to take her in my arms, and tell her it was n't true; but the lie would have died in my throat. For Gwendolen knew.

Then Gwendolen spoke. Very quietly she put all our pitiful knowledge into words. The hateful truth that we 've known through all the shadowy centuries, ever since we stood on the windy ledges outside our caves and watched our weary hunter struggle up the cañon, dragging his kill, and knew that in the cave behind us the fire was burning bright, and the meat smoked hot on the stones, and the skins and branches were heaped warm and safe.

"Yes, the men can always build again. And, Mother, I suppose that the only way to save ourselves is to make them so happy -that they don't dare."