Munsey's Magazine/Volume 85/Issue 1/Sometimes Things Do Happen

R. SAMUEL PEPYS set down the happenings of his days with unique candor and spirit, and, by so doing, became immortal. Edward Cane also kept a diary. Like that of Mr. Pepys, it was written in cipher, and it had a good deal about the author's wife in it; but in other ways it was very different.

Edward was passionately concerned with the future. He made prophecies, and it displeased him that these prophecies were not fulfilled. His was a just and reasonable mind. He knew—none better—how things ought to be, and he was displeased that they were not so.

He had, indeed, given up looking through the earlier pages of his diary, because it hurt too much; but he remembered some of the things. He remembered, if not the actual words, at least the spirit in which he had prophesied about this marriage of his. It was going to be different from all other marriages. Why not, since he and his Mildred were different from all other persons? It was going to be a splendid adventure.

“We shall never become stodgy,” he had written.

Well, as far as that went, they hadn't. Quite the contrary!

This evening he began his daily record:

“In my own room,” he was going to write, but that was not exact. It was Mildred's room, too. She could come in if she liked. He couldn't really shut himself up anywhere on earth. He crossed out the last two words, and leaned his head on his hands, struggling valiantly to be just, fair, and exact, and to crush down the extraordinary emotions that outrageous woman aroused in him.

Never, before his marriage, had he felt such fury, such unreasonable, ungovernable exasperation. He had had a well deserved reputation for being a strong, self-controlled, moderate young man. That was one reason why he had risen high in the credit department of a mammoth store—because he could handle angry, cajoling, or desperate customers so firmly and calmly; and here in his own home he was utterly defeated.

He raised his head and looked about him. He saw Mildred's things everywhere, crowding and jostling his things—even her silly white comb standing up in one of his military brushes.

“Well, what of it?” he asked himself. “I'm orderly and she's not. I always knew that.”

No use—he could not be philosophic about it. He got up and removed the comb with a jerk. As he did so, he caught sight of his own face in the mirror. It startled him. It was a strained and haggard face.

“I can't stand this!” he said to himself. “This can't go on!”

And just at this moment the door burst open and she—the cause of all his exasperation—appeared in the doorway.

“Edward!” she said in a furious, trembling voice. “Will you get that ladder, or won't you?”

“I will not,” he replied.

His own voice was not altogether steady, but he was much calmer than she. She had been crying—he could see that; and, as he faced her, she began to cry again.

“You beast!” she cried. “You selfish, heartless—”

“Look here!” said Edward. “I can't—I won't stand any more of this! I'm sick and tired—”

“And what about me?” she retorted. “After your promising to make me happy!”

That was too much. Edward could have reminded her of, things she had promised, but he scorned to do so. Contempt overwhelmed him. She had no scruples. The only thing on earth she cared about was to get her own way; and she wasn't going to get it—not this time! Her monstrous unfairness, her ruthless egotism, appalled him. He felt anger mounting to his brain, destroying his fine moderation.

“Look here!” he began.

“I won't!” said she. “If I'd had any idea what you were really like, I'd never have married you, Edward Cane!”

“No doubt!” said Edward frigidly. “However, another woman—”

All he had been going to say was that another woman—any other woman in the world, indeed—would have considered him a fairly good husband; but Mildred chose to take his words in a different spirit.

“Another woman!” said she, and laughed.

“If things happened as they should,” Edward went on, with heightened color, “I'd go away—now. I'd go off—”

“With another woman!” said she, and laughed again.

He was glad to hear the doorbell ring. If he hadn't gone out of the room just then, he felt that he would certainly have put himself in the wrong. His patience was exhausted.

“Oh, are you leaving me now, Edward?” Mildred called after him mockingly. “Hadn't you better take a clean collar—or a toothbrush, at least?”

Evidently she hadn't heard the bell, and he did not condescend to enlighten her. He made up his mind not to speak to her again, no matter what the provocation. He went on down the stairs to the front door, and opened it.

“Edward!” she cried.

Ha! She was giving herself away now! She was worried!

He opened the door wider, and, as he did so, he heard her start down the stairs. It was only a bill, left lying on the veranda. He stepped out to pick it up.

“Edward!” he heard her call. “Eddie!”

A sudden gust of wind blew the door to with a crash, and an equally sudden impulse made him go hastily down the steps and along the path.

The front door opened.

“Eddie!” she called. “Come back this instant!”

He strode up the road and turned the corner.

“Do her good!” he said grimly to himself. “Now I'm out, I'll just stay out for a while. I'll smoke, and take a stroll.”

Unfortunately, however, he had changed into an old coat, and had nothing to smoke with him, and no money to buy anything. Also, he was hatless. He shrugged his shoulders with a fine gesture of indifference. He could stroll, anyhow, and think—think this thing out to the bitter end.

It was all bitter, beginning and middle as well as the end. Mildred wished toe make a slave of him, to break his spirit, to destroy his manly pride. No—this should not be!

It was a strange, uneasy sort of night—blowing up for rain, he thought. Filmy black clouds went racing across a pallid sky, and the trees rocked and tossed. It was cool, too, for May. He quickened his steps a little.

“I'm upset,” he thought. “I'm more upset than I realized.”

Somehow, the familiar suburban street had a new and almost sinister aspect. The trim houses with their lighted windows looked like houses on the stage—delusions, with no backs to them. Faint and eerie music was coming through some one's radio. A dog howled, far away. Everything was different.

“This is a fool trick,” he thought suddenly. “I can't stay out here. I'll go back and—and simply not answer her.”

came round the corner. The wheels, spinning over the road, sounded like rain. He turned back.

“Sir!” cried a voice. “Please!”

The taxi had stopped, and a woman was leaning out of the window. Was she calling him? It must be so, for there was no one else in sight.

“Can you please tell me where Mrs. Rice lives?” said the woman.

“Er—no,” said he. “I'm sorry, but I don't know any one of that name here.”

He spoke a little stiffly, because he did not like that voice. It was musical enough, but lacking in calm. She was not discouraged, however.

“If you'd just please look at this—card,” she said. “Perhaps I've read the name wrong.”

Now Edward was frankly suspicious. He did not want to approach that taxi, but he had not the moral courage to refuse. He would have preferred to be set upon by bandits, to be blackjacked and robbed, rather than show his reluctance. He stepped off the curb and crossed the road. He knew that something was going to happen.

The woman in the taxi handed him a card; and at the same moment she clutched his collar, and, leaning forward, whispered in his ear:

“Say that Mrs. Rice lives in that house! Pretend to read the card! Quick!”

What could he do? He didn't want to say anything, but he did not know how to refuse this agitated creature. He took the card, went around to the front of the taxi, and pretended to read the card by the fierce white glare of the headlights.

“Oh!” he said. “Mrs. Bice! I see! She lives there—in that house.”

“Thank you!” said the woman in the taxi.

The instinct of self-preservation warned him to be off then, but he had also another instinct—that of helping other people who were in trouble. Something was obviously wrong here, and, prudent or not, he could not turn his back and walk off. The woman had got out, and stood beside him in the road.

“Please pay him and send him away!” she whispered.

So that was the game!

“I'm sorry,” said Edward blandly, “but I've come out without a penny in my pockets.”

“Here!” said she, and thrust a purse into his hand. “Only please get rid of him!”

He saw he had been wrong. With a certain compunction, he approached the driver.

“Five dollars!” said the man.

Edward leaned over and looked at the meter.

“Two forty,” he said.

“She made a special rate with me—” the driver began.

“Two forty,” said Edward briefly.

He opened the little purse, and found it crammed with bills—large bills, some of them—an extraordinary amount of cash. He was searching for change when the driver commenced.

Now Edward, as assistant credit manager, was not unaccustomed to remonstrances from persons who could not get what they wanted; nor was his nature a submissive or timid one. He felt quite able to withstand the driver's attack; but women are not like that. Bluster impresses them, and this woman was impressed.

“Oh, please!” she cried. “Give him the five dollars! Give him anything! Only do get rid of him!”

After all, it was her money. Edward gave the driver a five-dollar bill, with a low and forcible remark. The engine started up, and off went the taxi. It seemed extraordinarily quiet after it had gone.

“Drunk,” observed Edward.

“I know!” said the woman. “He was perfectly awful!”

She was going to cry, if she had not already begun; and he wanted no more of that.

“Now, then!” he said, in a loud, cheerful voice. “Shall I get you another taxi?”

“Please!” said she.

She was crying now—no doubt about it. What was worse, she took his arm and clung to it.

“If you'll wait here for a few minutes” suggested Edward.

“Oh, I can't!” she cried. “Oh, please don't go away and leave me all alone!”

He saw himself that it wouldn't do to leave her standing here in the street while he walked half a mile to the station for a taxi.

“I'll go into the Baxters' and telephone for one,” he thought.

But Mrs. Baxter was a particular friend of Mildred's. She would bother him. She would ask questions. She would want to know what he was doing, wandering about at ten o'clock at night. She would suspect that there had been a quarrel.

The idea was intolerable. He would not go to the Baxters'; and, not having been long in the neighborhood, he knew no one else.

As he stood deliberating, the lights in the house behind them went out, leaving the world very dark. For the moment, he felt a thousand miles from home. He felt marooned, cut off. He couldn't believe that just around the corner was that six-room house of hollow tile, with all improvements—that house which was mystically more than a house because it was his home. He owned it. In his experience as assistant credit manager he had seen what fatal accidents could happen to defer deferred payments, and he would have none of them. His rule was to pay cash. Mildred had more than once protested against this rule, but in vain.

“You're always looking ahead and imagining that all sorts of queer, awful things are going to happen,” she had said, only the day before; “but they never do!”

They didn't, didn't they? A lot she knew!

“Where can I get a taxi?” asked the voice at his side, and he came out of his reverie with a start.

“I'm afraid you'll have to walk to the station,” he said; “unless you happen to pick one up on the way.”

“Oh, dear!” said she. “Is it far? Half a mile? But if I've got to walk that far—isn't there some sort of hotel in the town?”

“Yes—there's the American House,” Edward told her.

“Then I'll go there,” said she. “If you'll just please tell me the way—”

He knew that he must go with her—that she was one of those women who can never go anywhere or do anything alone. Impossible to explain how he knew this, or how, in the dark, and without having even once looked squarely at her, he knew that she was young, pretty, and charmingly dressed. Stifling a sigh, he set off at her side. It had to be.

She thanked him very nicely. He assured her that it was no trouble at all, and then they both fell silent. She sounded as if she were walking quickly, her little high heels clacking smartly on the pavement; but as a matter of fact their progress was slow—a snail's pace, Edward thought. At this rate, he wouldn't get back to the house for an hour—that is, if he ever did go back. He said to himself that he had not made up his mind what he would do; but in his heart he knew that he couldn't help himself. He was a victim of destiny.

“But it is awfully nice of you!” said the fair unknown. “Were you just out taking a walk?”

“I wasn't going anywhere,” Edward replied gloomily,

“That's like me,” said she. “I'm not going anywhere. I don't care where I go, or what becomes of me!”

This alarmed Edward. After having been married to Mildred for nearly six months, he knew that such people were possible. They really didn't care where they went or what they did. They were incalculably dangerous and reckless.

“All women,” he thought somberly, “are alike—all of them!”

Perhaps at this moment Mildred was not caring where she went or what became of her.

“I know you must wonder,” the fair unknown continued. “I don't suppose any one in the world could understand.”

She paused, but Edward gave her no encouragement.

“I really did know a Mrs. Rice who lived somewhere in this neighborhood when I was a little girl,” she resumed. “Such a dear old lady. And somehow, in my desperation, I thought of h-her.” She was wiping her eyes with a small handkerchief. “You must think I'm so weak and s-silly!”

“Oh, no!” said Edward politely.

A fatalistic gloom enveloped him. He felt no curiosity at all. He knew not where he was going, or why; and what chiefly occupied his mind was a profound longing for a smoke and a hat. With a cigar, he felt, he could have regained his philosophic outlook. With a hat, he could have faced this situation more like a man of the world. He had neither, and he was walking off into the night, away from home.

The lights of the town made him anxious that the lady should dry her tears.

“I think it's going to rain,” he observed in an easy, conversational tone. “Country needs rain badly.”

He might have known that it wouldn't work. She paid no attention whatever to this remark.

“I only want to hide,” she said. “If I could have found dear old Mrs. Rice! That driver—he was so awful! He was going to drive out into the country and murder me. I saw it in his face. And then you came!”

“I happened to be there,” Edward corrected her.

“Isn't it strange, the way things happen?” she said in a low, intense voice. “Doesn't it seem like fate?”

It did. Edward said nothing. He was trying to invent some excuse for getting his arm away from her before they passed any shops where he was known. He failed to do so, however. The lights in all the shops on the main street shone upon him, hatless, with the desperate lady clinging to him.

The portico of the American House was in sight now. They drew nearer and nearer. Ten steps more—

“Quick!” she whispered. She pulled violently at his arm, and in an instant he found himself inside a jeweler's shop. “He was there—outside the hotel!” she whispered. “If he'd turned his head! He'd surely have killed you! Isn't that a sweet bracelet?”

This last remark was for the benefit of the young man who had come behind the counter. He seemed pleased, and brought out the bracelet in a velvet box.

“Sweet, isn't it?” she murmured.

She nudged Edward hard. He glanced at her, and a thrill of terror ran through him. She was smiling archly at him. Her tears had in no way marred a most lovely and piquant face. She was a beautiful and elegant woman, such as Edward had frequently seen in his office. He knew these pampered beings, and their naïve and exorbitant demands.

“Yes,” he replied faintly.

“Get it for me, dear!” she said.

He was stupefied.

“I want it! Get it for me, dear!” she repeated, with the same arch smile; but her elbow dug sharply into his ribs.

“How much?” he asked in a hollow voice.

“Only twenty-five dollars,” she said brightly.

He turned aside, and from her well filled purse took out the requisite amount. The young clerk wrapped up the bracelet and handed it to her. As he did so, she leaned across the counter.

“Is there a back way to get out?” she asked in a low and confidential voice. “They're out there, looking for us, and we want to give them the slip.”

“Certainly, madam,” said the clerk. “This way!”

He opened a door at the rear of the shop. They followed him along a dark passage, across a yard, through a gate in the fence, and out into another street.

“Er—good night!” said the clerk.

“No!” returned Edward. “Look here!”

But the fair unknown, still clinging to his arm, positively dragged him on.

“Stupid!” she hissed. “Hurry up! Do you want to be killed?”

They turned the corner into a dark alley, and here Edward stopped.

“Look here!” he said sternly. “This can't go on! I—”

“Don't you see? He thought we were a bride and groom, trying to get away.”

Edward believed none of this. He did not believe that he was in any danger of being killed by any person whatsoever, or that the clerk had thought what the unknown imagined; but women, as he had noticed before, always believed what they wished to believe.

“I have to live in this town, you know,” he observed.

Of course this observation did not move her. Women never considered the future. They lived, reckless and heedless, in the present moment.

“Where do you want to go now?” he pursued. “It's getting late.”

“Leave me!” said she. “It doesn't matter. Thank you for all you've done. Go away and leave me!”

“I can't leave you here—in an alley,” said Edward, repressing a violent irritation.

“What does it matter?” said she. “I don't care what becomes of me!”

“Well, I do!” said Edward.

“Oh, how sweet of you!” she cried, and began to weep again.

“I mean,” Edward explained hastily, “that I couldn't leave any woman alone in a place like this.”

“You're so ch-chivalrous!” she sobbed. “I knew it the moment I heard your voice!”

“I am not chivalrous,” replied Edward firmly; “only—look here! I'll get a taxi and see you home.”

“I have no home!” she wailed.

“You must live somewhere.”

“I don't—not any more. Oh, leave me! Leave me! I don't care!” She clutched his arm again, in that frenzied manner which so startled and annoyed him. “Oh, my hat!” she cried. “It's raining!”

She was right—the first heavy drops were beginning to fall.

“Oh, my pretty little hat!” she cried.

Now, Edward's was a just and logical mind, and yet even he had sometimes been illogically moved by trifles. This infantile plaint about a pretty little hat reminded him of certain things Mildred had said, and aroused in him a pity which the stranger's tragic and mysterious sorrows had hitherto failed to inspire.

“Come on!” he said.

was now the leader of the enterprise; he did not know where they were going, but he led the way, down the alley and out into a street which was new to him. It was one of those streets that may so often be found lurking near neat little suburban railway stations—a mean street, dark and deserted. A light burned dimly in a cutthroat barber's, another light in a shoemaker's, revealing the shoemaker and his family of pale infants. There was a—what was that?

“The Palace Restaurant—never closed,” a sign said.

They hurried into the Palace Restaurant just as the rain began in earnest.

“You can wait here till it's over,” said Edward.

He purposely refrained from saying “we,” but he knew that he could not desert the silly, helpless creature. They sat down at a little table near the window, and, when the proprietor came up to them, Edward ordered ham and eggs and coffee.

“I couldn't eat anything in this horrible place!” whispered his companion.

At first Edward was inclined to agree with her. It was not an appetizing place. The tablecloth was stained, and there was a stale and unpleasant aroma in the air. A glass case displayed a lemon meringue pie and a raisin cake which did not appeal to him.

When the food came, however, he ate it—to his regret, for, after having eaten, his desire for a smoke increased tenfold. He could think of little else. Stern and silent, he sat there thinking of the cigars in the pocket of his other coat, of the box of cigars in his office. He knew this to be a weakness, and he was struggling against it; but the struggle was difficult, and he was in no mood for his companion's words.

“You're unhappy—like me,” she said softly.

“No,” said Edward. “No—it's entirely different.”

“Oh, I understand!” she said.

She went on, about life, and how hard it is when you really feel things, and how alone you are, even in the midst of crowds. He tried not to listen, but he had to hear some of it, and it infuriated him.

“Very likely,” he said; “but I'd like to know your plans. What do you want me to do? Get you a cab, or what?”

She shrank back.

“Oh!” she said. “I see! You mean—I understand! You want to go. Leave me, then! Go! Why should you care what happens to me?”

“It's after eleven,” was all that Edward answered.

There was a silence.

“Very well!” she said coldly. “I shall take the next train into the city.”

There was another silence. The proprietor had retired, and they had the Palace Restaurant entirely to themselves. The rain was dashing against the windows. The street light outside showed only darkness.

What, Edward wondered, was Mildred doing now? She was capable of anything—of telephoning to the Baxters, to the police. Perhaps she had gone away herself. Perhaps she was wandering about in this storm, searching for her husband. It was a wild and fantastic notion, but that was the sort of thing women did. Look at this one! He did look at her, and she looked at him, with cold scorn.

“Will you be kind enough—” she began.

Just then the door opened and two men came in. They were the editor and the subeditor of the local paper, both of whom Edward knew.

“Hello, Cane!” said the editor. “Just put the paper to bed. What are you doing here?”

“Nothing much,” Edward replied as casually as possible.

The editor turned to the fair unknown.

“How do you like our little town, Mrs. Cane?” he asked. “Once you get to know—”

“I am not Mrs. Cane,” she interrupted frigidly.

“Oh! I—er—yes,” said the editor.

He waited a moment, but no one said anything. Then he and his colleague sat down at a table as far away as they could get.

“Why didn't you keep still?” said Edward in a low, fierce voice. “He's editor of the newspaper here.”

“Did you imagine I was that sort of woman?” she returned. “Did you think T would pretend to be the wife of a perfect stranger?”

“No,” said Edward; “but you didn't need to say anything. He'll talk—”

“Do you imagine I care?” said she.

Of course she didn't. Women care only for themselves. Edward could not trust himself to speak, but he thought. He thought.

“I'll find out who she is,” he said to himself, “'so that I can send her back for the money for her ham and eggs.”

A dismal bellow pierced the night.

“The eleven forty pulling out,” observed the editor to his companion.

Edward heard this.

“When's the next train into the city?” he asked, across the room.

“Five twenty to-morrow morning.”

“Now you see what you've done!” said the fair unknown to Edward.

“What I've done?” said he, amazed and indignant; but she was far more indignant than he.

“Now what am I going to do?” she demanded. “The last train's gone. I can't go into the city, and there's nowhere here for me to stay.”

“Are you blaming me for—”

“Yes,” said she. “You're a man, You ought to have—”

“Just what ought I have done?” Edward inquired with biting irony.

“I don't care!” said she. “Very well! I'm going to stay here all night.”

“You can't.”

“I'm going to!” said she.

“And I thought Mildred was unreasonable!” Edward reflected.

The image of Mildred rose before him, remarkably vivid. With great justice and moderation he compared her with this unknown individual. All women were not alike. Mildred was different. There was something about her— Sometimes, of course, she was simply outrageous, but, even at that— That time when he had the flu—or when anything went wrong in the office—

“And she's very young,” thought the just man. “She's nothing but a kid. Perhaps I should have made allowances.”

“Won't you smoke?” said a voice.

Glancing up, he saw the fair unknown proffering a silver cigarette case. Edward did not smoke cigarettes, and he had pretty severe theories about people who did so, but this time he was weak. He took one and lighted it. It was a horrible perfumed thing, but it helped him. The fact that he had broken one of his rules helped him, too. He felt more tolerant.

“Don't you—er—smoke?” he asked his companion.

He thought she was just the sort of person who would; but she shook her head.

“Arthur doesn't like me to,” she said. Her voice had changed, and her face, too. She was downcast and pale. “I made him get me that case,” she went on. “He hated to, but I made him.”

Tears had come into her eyes again, but this time Edward felt rather sorry for her.

“Don't cry!” he said kindly—the more so as the two editors had just gone out, in discreet silence.

“I can't help it!” said she. “My whole life is ruined. You don't know—oh, you don't know what a beast I've been! And now—now I've lost Arthur!”

“Who is Arthur?” Edward asked sympathetically.

“My husband,” said she. The tears were raining down her cheeks. “My dear, kind, wonderful, darling husband! I wanted to punish him, and frighten him, and I ran away. We had a quarrel. My life is ruined, and all because of a penny!”

“A penny?”

“Yes. Arthur said the two sides were called heads and tails, and I said they were called odds and evens. I know he was wrong, but why didn't I give in? Oh, why didn't I give in? Both our lives ruined! He's frightfully jealous. He'll never forgive this—and for a trifle like that!”

“I—” said Edward, and stopped. His face, too, had grown pale. “Ours was about a cat—Mildred's cat,” he went on. “It got up a tree, and she wanted me to go next door and get a ladder and get it down. I told her it could get down by itself when it was ready. She—”

“How cruel of you!” interrupted his companion.

“It was not cruel,” asserted Edward.

“It was! If you loved Mildred, you'd get dozens of ladders for her.”

“If she loved me, she wouldn't ask me to make such a monkey of myself,” retorted Edward. “I did it once, and the people next door laughed at me. I heard them.”

“You shouldn't care,” said the fair unknown severely. “You were entirely in the wrong.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Edward, “you were entirely in the wrong yourself, about that penny.”

“What?” said she.

She rose and faced him with flashing eyes. Edward rose, too. His eyes did not flash, but they were steely. They regarded each other steadily, with magnificent pride.

Suddenly she began to laugh.

“I am glad,” said Edward, “that you find this amusing.”

“Oh, dear!” she said, sinking back into her chair. “Aren't we pig-headed, both of us?”

“Kindly don't—” Edward began, but she did not heed him.

“Oh! A penny—and a cat!”

“Well,” said Edward, “perhaps—”

“Come on!” said she, rising again. “Let's go back and start all over again!”

“I—” Edward began.

“Oh, do come on!” she cried impatiently. “It was Arthur I saw outside the American House—when I pulled you into the jeweler's, you know. Oh, do hurry! He's traced me that far—perhaps we'll find him still there!”

“We?”

“Of course!” she said. “You've got to explain everything to Arthur. Come on!”

“But your hat!” Edward reminded her, as a last desperate plea.

“My hat!” she replied with supreme scorn.

So they went out of the Palace Restaurant into the driving rain.

“!” said Edward to himself, wiping his moist brow with a still moister handkerchief. “Whew!”

Arthur had been found in the American House, and he had been difficult to handle. If Edward had not had such a thorough training in his business, he could never have handled the situation in so masterly a fashion. Arthur was a rich young man, and accustomed to being kotowed to. Edward, however, was accustomed to rich people who were accustomed to being kotowed to. Many times he had explained to wealthy and indignant customers facts which they had not cared to consider—that, for instance, the mere possession of enough money to pay one's bills did not suffice for a credit department; that there must be a certain willingness to use the money for that purpose.

Edward had not kotowed to Arthur. He had been mighty firm with him, though kind, for he had felt sorry for the man. It had been a bad night for Arthur. He had been desperately worried about his wife. Patiently, inexorably, Edward had made him listen to reason, and in the end there was a touching and beautiful reconciliation. Arthur's wife, with truly admirable unselfishness, had said that it did not matter who was right about the penny. Both of them had declared that they owed everything to Edward and would be his lifelong friends.

He was now at liberty to attend to his own little affair. Having no money to pay for a taxi, he set off on foot in the direction of his home. It was still raining, and as black as the pit, yet he fancied he could feel dawn in the air. Taking out his watch, he saw that it was half past four. He had been away all night. He remembered his last words to Mildred:

“If things happened as they should—”

She had said that they never did, but they had. He was strangely justified, yet he felt no triumph. The rain fell cold upon his uncovered head, and his spirit was cold within him.

“She must have been worrying,” thought Edward.

Indeed, that was an inadequate word for what he knew she must have felt. He thought about Mildred, not in her outrageous moments, but as she was at other times, when she was her unique and incomparable self. He thought about marriage, in a large, general way. He also thought about his own marriage, and what he had intended it to be.

At last he thought about himself. Soaked through to the skin, cold and weary, Edward groped after justice. It was a creditable performance—the more so because he was unaware of it. He groped, and he found a new and startling piece of wisdom.

He quickened his pace. The wind had died down and the rain had stopped, but he did not know that, for the drops still pattered thickly from the trees. As he turned the corner of his own street, he saw in the sky the first streak of dawn—a pale gray creeping up into the black.

His reasonable mind told him that there was no cause here for wonder, yet he did wonder. He stopped for a moment and watched the marvelous dawn—watched it make a fresh and utterly new day and a new world. His own house seemed to grow before his eyes, turning from a shadowy mass into something familiar and yet strange. He had come home—after what extraordinary wanderings!

He advanced, walking on the sodden grass, so that his steps should be noiseless. He entered his neighbor's garden, thankful that they kept no dog. He took a ladder from the unlocked tool shed, and, carrying it with some difficulty, set it up against a certain tree on his own front lawn.

Then, still noiselessly, he stole up on the veranda, and, stooping, examined the door-mat and the darkest corners. Unsatisfied, he went around to the back of the house; and there, against the kitchen door, he found that which he sought—a cat. He wished to tell Mildred that he had brought her cat down from the tree, and he would not lie. It should be true.

The cat was mutinous. She struggled as he held her under his arm, and it was difficult to ascend the ladder. However, he did so. He put the cat on a branch, and let go of her for an instant, in order to get a better hold on her for the descent. She began climbing higher up. He clutched at her, but she eluded him. She was a heavy cat, but she went up a slender branch, which bent perilously beneath her.

“Kitty! Kitty!” whispered Edward. “Oh, you fool!”

Her hind legs had slipped off, and for an instant they were kicking desperately in the air, reminding him of a Zouave in white gaiters.

“Come, kitty!” murmured Edward. “Come on, kitty!”

The creature clawed and clutched desperately, swung under the bending branch, came up on the other side, and began to come down, facing him with wild yellow eyes. He caught her as she came within reach. He thought the touch of a firm human hand would reassure the terrified animal, but it was not so. She appeared to be suspicious and resentful.

As the cat's claws pierced his shoulder, Edward recoiled, and very nearly fell from the ladder. Probably he uttered some sort of exclamation, as almost anybody would. Anyhow, Mildred's head appeared at an upper window.

“I'm getting your cat down,” Edward explained.

By the time he had reached the foot of the ladder, with the cat, Mildred had opened the front door. She was carrying something in her arms, which she set down in the shadow of the veranda. She gave it a gentle push with her foot, and it ran off, unseen by Edward.

Edward set down his cat, and she also ran off.

“There you are!” he said.

Mildred came down the steps.

“Oh, Eddie!” she cried.

It was quite light now in the open. He could see her face, and it seemed to him rather wonderful.

“Eddie!” she said. “You're soaking wet! Oh, Eddie, it was all my fault!”

“I don't know that it was,” replied Edward meditatively. “Some of it was my fault, I think.”

She came nearer to him.

“Oh, Eddie!” she cried. “It really doesn't matter one bit whose fault things are, does it?”

He was startled, for that was his own particular bit of wisdom, painfully arrived at. Mildred was a remarkable girl!