Some of Us Are Married/As Lochinvar

LL through the fifteen years of their married life Mrs. Laurence had cherished a secret longing that some day Will would surprise her by carrying her off bodily, as it were, from the toil and tangles of her household labours—like a domestic Lochinvar—while she thrilled at his forcefulness.

It had been a broiling day. As she sank down in the big chair in the shaded corner of the piazza after her fourth journey to the cellared ice-box since dressing, she hoped fervently that nothing would disturb her rest for an hour or more, until Will and his guest, young Mr. Sains, for whom the cold dinner had been preparing all day, should arrive from the train. Delusively cool and fresh as she looked, in her white gown with the long coral beads that contrasted so effectively with her dark hair, she felt both hot and exhausted.

She had a somewhat guilty consciousness, indeed, of having worked with a foolish intemperance—she had been on her feet almost constantly since she rose.

It had been in direct disregard of her husband's advice that she had let the maid off on her two-weeks' vacation—after the fourteen-year-old Robert had gone to camp—with the hazy idea of having a free, restful time alone with Will. She felt now that she had had no idea that the weather would be like this, or of the place that ice-box would play in the scheme of things.

And Will, with the best intentions, was no help at all. It had often been a wonder to Mrs. Laurence how he ever achieved the cooking and dish-washing he bragged so much about on his fishing-trips, he was so inadequate at home! Perhaps she was too capable herself to welcome suggestions from another—perhaps, also, her strictly feminine directions didn't always have that clarity which is necessary for the enlightenment of the masculine mind.

"Isn't it scorching!"

Mrs. Laurence started, and looked up to see a large woman in a faded muslin, ironed all askew, her black hair strained with fearful tightness from her pleasant face, who had halted in passing.

"Oh, Mrs. Stone! Won't you come up?"

"Thank you, no. I'm in a hurry to get back. Pahpa came home early this afternoon"—Mrs. Stone referred to her husband, not her parent—"and I've been down to the village getting some screws and a nut for the wringer—he's fixing up everything in the house; that man is such a comfort! By the way, I just met Mr. Bailey, and he tells me his wife's much better. I don't think there's anything the matter with her, myself, but laziness, though they say he's perfectly devoted to her—won't let her raise her finger for a thing. It was so hot this morning that I washed out five white sweaters, ironed Susy's 'Peter Thompson,' and made ice-cream. I spent most of the afternoon in the bath-tub."

"I wish I could have," said Mrs. Laurence longingly. "Just as soon as I begin to take off anything, somebody comes to either the front or back door; it's simply maddening. Will wanted me to stay in bed this morning—as if I could! Such ideas men have! What do you think, only last night I asked him to leave two milk-tickets out—they're in a jar in the closet—and I found them on the kitchen table this morning. As I told him, I supposed, of course, that he knew they were always left on the little shelf inside the outer screen door. I haven't been able to get a drop of milk to-day, though I telephoned all over, but I managed with a little that was left. And after getting his breakfast ready I ran upstairs to finish dressing, and when I went down again he had never got the rolls out of the oven at all, though I told him especially that they were there—he had just looked in the coal range, and never thought of the gas-oven."

"Oh, you should have trained him better," said Mrs. Stone wisely, as she went on her way. The helplessness of Mrs. Laurence's husband was a fruitful theme of conversation when the matrons of the neighbourhood met, not for the stereotyped times of uplift, but for those confidential moments when you talked about what really interested you. It was considered that Mrs. Laurence was allowed to live entirely too much on her nervous energy.

The latter now languidly watched the form of her neighbour as she went down the shaded street. The next instant Mrs. Laurence had dragged herself to her feet in horrified consternation. Up the short path to the house came a very old, little, black-bonneted lady, supported by a large and florid middle-aged one, who carried a suitcase—her wide, pink-flowered hat rakishly askew over her anxious countenance. The former was the oldest member of the Laurence family, whose advent was usually heralded weeks before and to whom the highest consideration was due.

"Why, Aunt Neely! and Cornelia too, on such a day! You must be nearly dead."

"Don't say a word," groaned the one designated as Cornelia, assisting her parent up on the porch and into the chair Mrs. Lawrence hastily brought forward, sinking down wearily herself on the top step, as one who has not strength to go farther.

"Mother would come! She set her mind on seeing Will. I don't know how I ever got her here, I knew from the beginning what it would be like. I've got to put her to bed at once. Mother, don't you try to talk. Even the janitor said to her: 'Mrs. Higbee, up here in this nice cool flat with the wind blowing in from the river, you don't realize what it is down on the pavements, let alone the hot country, all cooped up in trees!' But you know what Mother is; nobody can stop her when she makes up her mind." Miss Cornelia's eyes filled suddenly with tears. "She hasn't any consideration for me at all, not the least bit. She never thinks of the anxiety she causes me."

"You are all worn out," said Mrs. Laurence compassionately, with an anxious glance at the little old lady, who lay back in her chair, motionless, yet with eyes that winked a sly, indomitable suggestion from her wrinkled face.

"I'm so sorry you feel ill, Aunt Neely."

"She doesn't hear you. I had no idea that we would have to walk from the station. Of course, in town, there are so many ways of riding. I think if I can get her to bed, dear, and keep her on a milk diet—a glass every two hours—she'll get straightened out by morning. I'm sorry to be such a trouble."

"Oh, no trouble at all!" said Mrs. Laurence earnestly. "I'll go and get things ready for you. I haven't any maid at present—but it's no trouble!" She would have been disgraced in her own eyes, as well as in those of Will's family, if anything for Aunt Neely's comfort were neglected.

When the visitors, after much fetching and carrying and toiling up and down stairs, were finally settled in their room, fortunately got ready for Mr. Sains, Aunt Neely safely in bed, bolstered up high with pillows, and Corny in airy négligée beside her waving a large palm-leaf fan in her fat, bare arms, Mrs. Laurence made her way laboriously cellarward for the initial glass of milk. With fresh sinking of the heart she realized that there was none. She had an indirect foreboding of calamity, as if her future fate were inextricably tangled in this shortage—but she caught up a pitcher, and ran breathlessly out of the house down the back way past half a dozen summer-closed homes, to where Mrs. Stone stood in her garden, picking green tomatoes, while the sound of Mr. Stone's industrious hammering came from within.

"Oh, Mrs. Stone! Could you possibly spare me a little milk? My husband's aunt, a very old lady, has just come out unexpectedly from town, and the journey has upset her."

"I should think it would," said Mrs. Stone coldly, straightening herself up. The Ridge, as a residential section far removed from the small trading centre, had its obligations. Mrs. Stone was usually among the readiest to fulfil them. She would have willingly sat up all night with a sick neighbour, but there are times when to borrow milk oversteps the mark.

"We have only a very small quantity ourselves—after making ice-cream. I was saving what we have for the creamed potatoes for dinner—pahpa is so fond of them—but I suppose I can spare you a small cupful." She was going into the house as she spoke, Mrs. Laurence herself following.

"No, no; don't give it to me!"

"Oh, yes; take it," said Mrs. Stone dispassionately, pouring a small quantity of the fluid into the pitcher. "Pahpa'll have to get along with boiled potatoes. I suppose you know you can sometimes buy milk from Mrs. Anderson, in the brown house next the red barn, if you go for it yourself."

"Oh, thank you; thank you so very much!" said Mrs. Laurence, and, conscience-stricken, made off wearily with her pitcher. Whatever breeze might have been had died out; the land lay smothered in the dead heat, her skin from head to foot was damp with it; a strange, swaying dizziness possessed her—and then, fortunately, went. She took a postal card from the letter-carrier as she reached her own door, and stopped a moment to read it. It was from Blanche, her sister-in-law, in her usual telegraphic style:

Wednesday—good heavens, that was to-morrow.

"Nan!"

A cautious voice from over the stairs seemed to hint at scanty clothing.

"Yes, Corny, I'm coming. Wait till I get a glass. ere I am! How is Aunt Neely now?"

"Well, she isn't much better. She felt the lack of air. I took out the screens, dear; I know you won't mind. Mother couldn't breathe with them in." Corny stopped, and gathered herself together as one who feels a duty laid upon her. "Nan, I do not see how you stand the mosquitoes here. Of course, I know that the janitor said that we must expect them, but I had no idea they were like this. I've killed a dozen."

"Well, of course, if you take out the screens," said Mrs. Laurence belligerently, and then stopped short. What was the use? She bent over the bed where the old lady lay, helpless, but bright-eyed still.

"Can't I do anything for you, dear Aunt Neely?"

"I'll be all right, dear" whispered the invalid.

"I hope Will will get here soon—she misses the janitor," said the daughter feelingly. "Mother likes to have a man around; we depend on the janitor for so many things. And this is the hour when the janitor's children all come in to see Mother, and get their nickel—there are five of them, like little steps—five now, but we think, Mother and I" Corny paused significantly.

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Laurence hastily. She conceived an aversion to further confidences as to the janitor and his family.

"Is the milk all right?"

"Well, it's a little thinner than what Mother's used to. Of course, in the city we get nearly all cream; as the janitor says, 'Mrs. Higbee, it's well worth the extra price you pay for it,' and so it is."

"Yes," said Mrs. Laurence dully. She felt as if some strange web was spinning itself around her. She was so stupidly tired! But it was six o'clock already and she must begin to think of supper—and more milk! As she ran downstairs now she all but collided with her husband's tall, dignified figure in the front hall. His gaze, which had an undefined anxiety in it, relaxed as it met hers.

"Hello, Nan!"

"Oh, Will, I never was so glad to see you! I'm just ready to drop. Where's Mr. Sains?"

"We came out with Roofer, in his brother-in-law's car; they've gone for a little spin. Roofer'll be here for dinner, too. D'ye mind?"

"I don't mind anything since you're here. You'll have to help me out. Oh, Will, I've just had a card from Blanche saying she is coming out to-morrow—of all times—with the two boys, instead of next month, when I'd invited her. She wants to have their teeth attended to. But isn't it just like Blanche! I'll have to try and get Mrs. Cooley to help me."

"Why do you let her come?"

"Why, what else could I do?"

"I know what I'd do—send her a telegram telling her you can't have her. She'd do it to you!"

"Oh, Will, I can't be rude! She knows we have plenty of room. Besides, she has sent on some things by parcel post."

"All right, have it your own way. You asked me what to do, and I told you."

"Ah, don't speak to me like that, dearest!"

Mrs. Laurence put her arms around his half-reluctant shoulders, and leaned her head against him. "I haven't told you all! Will, Aunt Neely and Corny are upstairs."

"No!" His arms instinctively closed around her.

"Yes," Mrs. Laurence paused solemnly. "They came out for the night; Aunt Neely wanted to see you, but the journey was too much for her. Corny has her in bed; Corny 's in despair. I don't know how she's going to get back to-morrow. You'd better go up and see them."

Mr. Laurence whistled. "I will in a minute." He sat down suddenly, pushing another chair toward his wife. "You'd better sit down, Nan, you're so tired."

"Oh, Will I can't, I've too much to do. Is there anything you wanted to say to me?"

He nodded, looking at her thoughtfully.

"Sains wants me to go off with him to-morrow camping for a few days, up at White Vale." White Vale was a lake some forty miles back in the country where there was a fishing cabin and a boat. "I though I couldn't get away from the office, but it seems that I can. The only thing that stood in the way was leaving you alone. But if you're going to have Blanche and the boys"

"Oh, go, of course, I'll be all right," she said shortly, going off to the kitchen while he mounted the stairs to Aunt Neely. She could hear the warmth of Corny's greeting, and even Aunt Neely's thin, tremulous voice; Will was the star.

Mrs. Laurence after all these years of wedded life was still girlishly in love with her husband. For her, his presence made the world. It was always a pull to have him go off on one of his fishing trips, though she herself spurred him on, because they did him so much good. She had her secret heart-rewarding in the fact that she always seemed to look very nice to him when he returned; he made her a partner in every exciting detail.

But to be left now with Blanche and the two boys was almost too much to stand. She nearly burst into a foolish fit of crying; she was so tired, and wanted so much to be taken care of, even though, paradoxically, she could never let him take care of her!

While Will was upstairs, and after telephoning for milk unavailingly to the closed shops, she perversely slipped out of the door, and trudged painfully the half mile to Mrs. Anderson's, next to the red barn across the track, instead of sending him for it, thank- fully paying twenty -five cents for the last bottle Mrs. Anderson had.

That problem was settled at any rate; no matter what was to come. It was so hot, perhaps Blanche would not start after all. The parcels had not yet arrived—encouraging thought!

Mr. Sains was a charming young fellow, small and fair; Mr. Roofer was small and dark and equally charming. Slender Mrs. Laurence, in her white gown and coral beads, had a feminine attraction to be felt by any man; together, the couple, light of foot, started hither and yon in assistance to her as she purveyed the dainty and appetizing cold meal; taking dishes from her hand to plant them triumphantly on the dining table, pretending to stab themselves with the silver forks and dancing solemnly in exaggerated postures during the intervals of service, with a stave of mock opera thrown in for variety; while the master of the house, appearing at last from the upper regions, made several ineffectual journeys to the ice-box, bringing up the whole crockful of butter instead of the plate of butter balls his wife had meant when she said "the butter," and cracking such a small bowlful of ice that she had to go down herself surreptitiously to supplement it.

After all her careful arrangements so that she wouldn't have to cook anything at night, at the last moment she had to light up the gas range, after all, to make toast and scramble eggs, while the kettle sent forth a rising cloud of steam; Corny, it appeared, possessed a digestion that could only assimilate warm food when the thermometer was in the nineties.

Now that night had fallen, Aunt Neely was becoming restless, so that Corny felt she couldn't leave her; Mrs. Laurence herself stumbled upstairs with the tray. Everything one touched seemed sticky with the heat—through the close, hot darkness there was a muttered roll of thunder. Corny loomed large and tragic in a kimono of interwoven crimson storks.

"Mother wants to get back to-night," she appealed to Mrs. Laurence, "in the state she is now! Why, she can't sit up. She can't hear what I say. She misses her own bed—and it's so dark and gloomy outside it frightens her, dear. The moon is always so uncertain in the country. The city is so cheerful with all the electric lights. Will insisted on putting back the screens so there isn't a breath of air. Mother! Don't you move—stay where you are. I think she looks very bad—she can't hear what I say. Now if we were in town the janitor could go out and get her some ice-cream—that always does her good; but the country is so inconvenient! I hope she isn't going to have one of her turns."

"Oh, I hope not," responded Mrs. Laurence anxiously. She was thankful to get downstairs again in more cheerful surroundings, even though the air was stifling, and to be escorted to her place at the table by both young men. The crabs, the salad, the iced coffee, the sandwiches seemed to be as much appreciated as she hoped they would be; she herself couldn't eat.

"This tastes fine," said Mr. Sains.

"I should say so," chimed in Mr. Roofer.

"I tell you what," continued the cheerful Mr. Sains, "the ride'll be grand to-morrow night, back over the hills, won't it, Laurence? Always cool up there!"

"Is Mr. Roofer going, too?" asked Mrs. Laurence.

That gentleman shook his head mournfully. "No, the firm's too stuck on me—can't bear to part with me for an hour. Isn't it tough luck?"

"Awful to be so necessary," said Mr. Sains, deftly flipping a biscuit across the table. "I can just hear the cool water lapping on the cool rocks to-morrow night, with the cool dew falling and the cool breeze rustling through the trees, and the cool fish jumping in the lake—Roofer, stay on your own side, you'll annoy the lady with your rude manners. Dost thou like the picture, Laurence?"

"You bet I do!" His countenance changed suddenly to one of anxiety. "Now where are you going, Nan?"

"Just down to the ice-box for Aunt Neely's milk." It was hard to keep the tears out of her voice.

"You sit still. I'll see to it."

He emerged from the cellar in a couple of moments with the glass in his hand. "No use taking this up, Nan; it's sour."

"Sour! That's impossible; I brought it in only an hour ago. What have you done to it?"

"What have I done to it! Ah, look here, Nan, that's a little too much. What could I have done to it?"

"No, no; of course not—the thunder must have turned it. What shall I do?"

"I'll run over to the Plaisteds, if you like, and borrow some—they're home; they are sure to have plenty."

"Go for milk to the Plaisteds!" Mrs. Laurence's face flushed. "Really, I don't understand you sometimes, Will—after the way she complained of Robert"

"All right, do as you please," said her husband carelessly. "I was only trying to help you out."

"Now, don't you worry, Mrs. Laurence," said Mr. Sains engagingly; "we'll take the machine and hunt you up some milk, see if we don't."

"It's awfully good of you, but everything is closed!"

"Oh, we'll find something open," said Mr. Roofer in a tone that carried a significant strain of conviction with it. "Why don't you come out with us for a little spin, Mrs. Laurence? The air would do you good."

"Yes, why don't you?" seconded her husband.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly—with all these dishes to clear away—but thank you just the same." The perverse spirit of self-sacrifice filled her. "You go with them, Will. I'll be here if Aunt Neely wants anything."

"All right; we'll be back in a few minutes," he assented with an alacrity that gave her a pang, but as he reached the door, following after the others, he turned and came back again with an anxiety in his eyes that seemed unwontedly to gauge her. When he spoke there was an appeal in his voice not unmixed with sternness.

It brought back to her in a flash that time, five years ago, when she had insisted, in spite of his expressed command, in papering an attic room herself, ceiling and all, rather than have a man to do it; Will was always foolishly ready to spend money. He had been really extremely angry when he came home and found that she had fallen off the ladder and fainted, and strained her back. He had hardly spoken to her all that entire week that she lay in bed afterward—it took all her unwearying charm to bring him round. There had been a thrill in doing it—a sense of danger well escaped—but not to be incurred again. If he had left her more to her own desires since, she had tacitly been more temperate in her use of them. That hint of stern offence was in his tone now as he made the appeal which more than any other rouses the defiant ire of womankind.

"Why do you wash the dishes now, Nan? Why don't you lie down and rest a little first? We'll all help you when we come back."

"Leave the dishes!"

He was spared the rest of her hurtling reply, as a man stamped heavily up on the porch, bringing into view at the door two disgraceful bundles, from one of which, in immigrant fashion, protruded a boy's heavy shoe—the parcels from Blanche!

"They had no street nor number on 'em, ma'am—" so like Blanche!—"and they went to Mr. Lawriston's by mistake. He's after sending me around wid 'em." The newly arrived Lawristons lived in the big marble house with the terraces—pretty looking bundles to go there!

"Thank you very much," said Mrs. Laurence, while her husband searched for more suitable reward. Blanche was coming after all!

When the men all left, Mrs. Laurence flew to her work, after a weary journey upstairs for Corny's tray. The dishes in her competent hands rattled into the pan of hot suds and out of it, washed and dried and put away, while the heat clung to her sickeningly.

As she was finishing, Corny's anxious voice came down once more from above.

"If you'll bring up some hot water, dear, I'll give mother a footbath. In town, of course, there is always plenty of hot water in the faucets, but here"

"I'll heat some at once." But when she finally lugged up the steaming pailful, she found Corny in tears.

"I think you'd better telephone for the doctor at once, Nan," she insisted. "I can't do anything with her!"

Mrs. Laurence rushed madly down again to find on telephoning that the doctor was off on his vacation; she might call up Dr. Giddings. It seemed hours as she stood there, stifled in the dark closet, waiting for the wire to be free, and when she did get it, waiting and ringing fruitlessly for a response. Evidently no one cared at Dr. Giddings's this hot night whether the telephone rang or not. "I'll try again later," she said to the deeply disapproving Corny—the janitor, it appeared, could always get a doctor. She had to explain, after all, that Will had gone for more milk.

And how long they were gone! Just like those boys to forget all about time when they got off. Everything seemed to crowd in on her now. She wouldn't wait for Will's help. She brought up cracked ice from the cellar; she dragged the big rocking chair with the arms from another room so that Corny would have something in which to sit up all night; she fetched and carried, making up a bed in Robert's room for Mr. Sains—she would have to see about the arrangements for Blanche in the morning. Aunt Neely might be ill a long time. She could hear Blanche cheerfully saying that she didn't mind how upset things were! She could feel everything piling, piling up on her while Will was off on his fishing trip Ah, that was the rub! She was suddenly possessed by an hysterical sense of injury; she was doing so many things for everybody, and nobody was doing anything at all for her; no one cared how tired she got, though she was trembling in every limb and could hardly see.

"Oh, here you are at last!" she almost wailed as she ran out on the porch at the chug-chug of the motor. "I thought you would never, never come!"

"You don't know how far we had to go for this," said her husband, placing the bottle of milk in her eager grasp. "We burst a tire coming back, besides. Take care, don't drop it."

"We cheered wildly out in the street when we finally got that bottle," said Mr. Sains. He and Mr. Roofer assisted her in, one on either side, affectionately. Her shaking fingers poured out a glass of the fluid while she hurriedly explained the state of things.

"Corny is frightfully worried—she's afraid Aunt Neely is starting in for a long illness."

Mr. Laurence looked at her frowningly. "Well, I don't know what you're going to do—really! I'll take this up, and see about things."

"Very well," said his wife. He grew dim before her eyes. "Did you—did you only bring one bottle of milk?"

The three men stared at her blankly.

"Why—you didn't tell us to bring two, did you?"

"No, no; of course not," she rejoined in haste. Why did a man always have to be told so particularly? Why couldn't he ever use his judgment? Why must you always have to explain everything?

"I tell you, it's the hottest night I've ever known," said Mr. Sains candidly, wiping his forehead with a moist handkerchief. He put out a damp coat sleeve ingenuously for inspection: "Feel me! It'll do Laurence a world of good to get off to-morrow, Mrs. Laurence; he's been working too hard lately. Nothing like a fishing trip to let the air in on you—it's a complete rest, body and mind; you shake off everything that's troubling you. I can hardly wait, myself, till to-morrow. You look tired out, Mrs. Laurence. Don't get up, let me put that bottle in the ice-box for you."

"No, no, I'll just run down with it myself. You wouldn't know where to put it," she returned hastily, in the unconscious wooing of her fate.

She really hadn't known how dizzy she was. She hurried down the steep cellar stairs, and threw open the door of the refrigerator. As she did so, the bottle fell from her lax hand, splintering with a loud crash into fifty pieces, while the milk, in a white rivulet, meandered across the cellar floor.

The next instant, Mrs. Laurence pitched forward, struck her head against the edge of the open door of the ice-box, and went down in a heap.

For some time afterward she seemed to open her eyes at occasional intervals with a hazy impression of lying out flat on the parlour sofa, with something cold on her head, and Mr. Sains fanning her while Will put something down her throat with a spoon, and both gazing at her with eyes of deep concern. After a while that queer, blurred feeling in her head began to leave her, and turn into a comfortable drowsiness, that held her pleasantly inert, through all the strange sounds that reached her. There seemed to be a tremendous amount of heavy running up and down stairs, and footsteps tramping unaccustomedly around, and the telephone bell ringing, and a jumble of voices, now raised loudly, now whispering in consultation, and more tramping of feet—noises that persisted endlessly; then the sound at last of a motor whirring away, and afterward silence—a silence that suddenly made her wide awake. She half raised her head, and her husband came over from the other side of the room and sat down beside her.

"You've had a good sleep; you'll be all right now," he said, with evident relief, as he smiled at her encouragingly, patting the hand that was half tangled in the coral beads. He looked very big and kind and dear. "You gave us a sure enough scare—I managed to get Dr. Giddings on the 'phone at last, and he told us to give you this." He indicated some medicine in a glass on the table near. "I think we can get you up to bed soon."

"Oh, Will!" she struggled to sit up, and fell back again. "I've got to see about more milk for Aunt Neely."

"No, you don't have to; lie still; she's gone!"

"Gone!"

"Yes." He began to laugh. "By George, trust Aunt Neely for getting her own way! We've got her off to town in Roofer's automobile. I carried her down and put her in, while Sains brought Corny and the bag."

"Aunt Neely—at ninety—gone off in the car—to-night!"

Mr. Laurence nodded. "I tell you the old lady was as gay as a bird. She's worth ten of Corny any day. We telephoned the peerless janitor—and he's to have everything ready for them at the other end."

"Oh, Will!" She clung to his hand. "I can't believe it. But where is Mr. Sains? Has he gone to bed? Has he clean towels in his room?"

"He can go without 'em, if he hasn't. No, he hasn't gone to bed. I've something else to talk to you about besides towels." His gaze bent on her thoughtfully. It had something in it that puzzled her—it was as if she were but an object in a road down which his attention was directed further.

"Sains and I have been fixing up things together. We're going to take you off camping with us to-morrow. Now, don't you say a word: you're going. The house can take care of itself for once! We'll get the 2.10 train and have the drive at the other end. It'll be moonlight when we reach the camp. You'll need all the warm things you've got—Sains and I brought down all the suitcases I could find in the trunk-room, and I got your sweater and thick skirt and heavy shoes out of the closet—I knew you'd want them. Sains is stuffing them in now, and you can tell us what else to forage for. We want to get some of these bags closed to-night."

"But, Will!" Mrs. Laurence was sitting bolt upright in horror—he and Mr. Sains packing ''her clothes! ''

"I carried down a couple of pairs of pink-rimmed blankets—they were the thickest ones—and rammed them into one of the old telescope bags; the nights would freeze you up there. Sains and I have it all figured out—he is going to borrow a small tent."

"But, Will, those are the best blankets!" Mrs. Laurence's voice rose piteously. "You can't take them!"

"Well, they're warm, aren't they? That's the main consideration now. You haven't anything to say about it anyway. This is my show, and I'm running it."

"But, Will, Blanche is coming to-morrow!"

"No, she isn't. As soon as Sains and I made our plans, I sent her a night letter—he suggested it—and told her you wouldn't be home. So that's settled. What do you say? Well, I don't care whether she forgives you or not; that's the least of my troubles; and I telephoned Mrs. Stone, and she says she'll send the Cooley woman over here first thing in the morning. She'll be here herself later. Sains and I will get our breakfast in town. I'll be out before noon; I've got to stock up with the food. I'll cook you a steak in the open to-morrow night that is a steak."

"But, Will—I wouldn't take a steak! That's so troublesome. Don't you think canned pork and beans would be handier for you, dear? Don't you think"

She stopped short. Mr. Laurence transfixed her with his irate eye.

"See here, Nan! Who's doing this? I may not always know what you want, but I know what I want when I go on a fishing trip, and I don't need any one to tell me! Remember that. This is none of your housekeeping rackets! When I hit off my own bat I know where I am. You're going with me this time, dear; understand?"

His clasp softened the severity of his tone. With his last words he smiled down at her, a peculiarly sweet and radiant smile that somehow seemed to lift her out of her counted-on estate of wifehood into the special honour and intimacy of a boon companion of the wilds. In spite of the natural struggles and dismay of a woman and a housekeeper, Mrs. Laurence felt a wild, unbelievable thrill; after all these years her Will was really a Lochinvar!