Some of Us Are Married/Her Job

RS. IRVING, in her white gown, slender and gray-eyed, sitting behind the coffee urn facing her husband with the newspaper, felt unusually languid and weak this morning. She often thought she could stand the day better if it did not begin with breakfast, or if, paradoxically speaking, it came after luncheon, when one was more physically braced for discouragement and the devolving cares of the household.

Even if the service hadn't all depended on one maid, it was Mr. Irving's rule, harrowingly never carried out, that the household should be assembled at one and the same moment at the matin meal. In the home in which he himself had been brought up it was a cult that all virtue depended on early rising and being prompt at breakfast. The little ten-year-old Cecilia, as was often fondly noted by Cousin Lizzie, was a real Irving in her morning wakefulness; white-haired Cousin Lizzie, fresh in her lavender gingham, was an Irving, too; but the eldest son and Lily and Jack, as well as their mother, took after the Vanes—delightful people, but who hadn't the advantage of having been brought up as Irvings.

Mrs. Irving, as she waited nervously for the delinquents—while she tried to listen to what her husband read from the paper—was, as usual, divided between sympathy for them and for him. He was so good that it was a shame not to try to please him—and just when poor father was going through so much with his business!

"Oh, there's Jack now!" she said.

"I couldn't get dressed sooner because Vane wouldn't let me have my shoes," complained Jack, a curly-haired boy of fourteen. "I wish you would make Vane stop; he"

"Be quiet, dear, your father is reading," murmured the mother.

She motioned to Ellen to take away the toast by Cousin Lizzie's plate and bring a piece that wasn't burned on the edge, and held up a warning finger to the pretty, slender Lily, a girl of twenty, who twined her arm around her father's neck and kissed him lightly as she passed, already hatted and cloaked for the train, while he reached up a hand and fondly patted her cheek, though he went on with the paragraph.

Seven people had been rescued from a spectacular fire, in a building which Mr. Irving had once occupied, through the continued efforts of one special fireman who had himself succumbed afterward. Cousin Lizzie made little murmurs of interest during the recital, with exclamations of horror at the end; everyone said how brave the poor fireman was to stay at his post.

"Well, that was his job," said Mr. Irving hardily. He folded the paper. "Jack, don't make such disgusting noises when you eat. Where is Vane, Marla? Why can't that boy ever get down to breakfast on time?"

"Here he is," she said nervously, with an appealing glance at her oldest son. Vane was twenty-two, dark, handsome, forceful looking, and at the moment with an enigmatic expression as he met his mother's gaze.

"Good morning." His salutation embraced the table. "I don't want any breakfast." His hand waved off a protest. "No, Mother! I don't want any; I'll get something to eat in town. I've got to stop at the tailor's for my coat on the way to the station. Good-bye!" He had kissed her and was already gone.

"Mother, Ellen has given me cold mutton sandwiches for my lunch when she knows I hate cold mutton," clamoured Cecilia. "Mother, I can't eat cold mutton; Mother, I can't eat cold mutton—Mother, I can't!"

"Hush, Cecilia! I'll see that you have something else," said the mother. Her eyes roved anxiously to the husband as he rose. "What was the matter with your eggs? You haven't touched them."

"Oh, nothing, only they were too hard," he answered. He was a large, fine-looking man in his gray business suit; his somewhat clouded face took on a kindly expression as he kissed her good-bye in his turn. "Now remember and take care of yourself to-day, dear. Coming in with me, Lily?"

"Yes, Father." She gathered up her music roll—Lily studied both vocally and instrumentally at the conservatory.

"I don't know what time I'll be home; don't wait dinner for me. For goodness' sake, Mother, don't look as if you expected something dreadful! I'm only going to the tea-room dance with Mrs. Hartwell and the crowd. Cecilia, will you see if I dropped my gloves on the stairs? Oh, there they are. Good-bye, Mother."

"Good-bye," said the mother once more, rising herself from a half-eaten breakfast to make the sandwiches for Cecilia, and find Jack's arithmetic in the struggle to get him off for school, before going back to clear off the breakfast table. Her heart had sunk at Lily's words; it was not only that she seemed to have no thought for her home in the exigencies of music lessons and the fox trot, but there was that haunting fear—the tea-room dance was all right, of course, but if she was meeting Rupert Yarde this way, why, then

"You go and sit by the window with the paper; it's such a pretty morning! I'll clear the things away," said Cousin Lizzie kindly. "Farnham was remarking before you were down, dear, that you did entirely too much—you must remember what the doctor said—and you know how glad I always am to help. Dear me, how careless Ellen is! Here is another cup nicked. She should be spoken to."

"Oh, dear! I suppose so," said Mrs. Irving helplessly.

"But that wasn't what I wanted to tell you about, Marla." Cousin Lizzie stood still with a trayful of spoons and forks in her hands. Her blue eyes looked straight before her—Cousin Lizzie was white-haired and elderly, but her eyes were still very blue; her voice trembled. "It's about Lily. You know, Marla, how I have loved that child—my godchild and named Elizabeth after me! When she was a little thing she used to climb up in my arms and hug me tight and say: 'I love you, sweet Lizzie!' Of course I was away at Cora's for a good many years, but I never forgot Lily's birthday or Christmas. But ever since I came here, three months ago" Cousin Lizzie's voice broke into a sob; she sat down suddenly. "Just because I opened another letter of hers yesterday afternoon, addressed to Miss Elizabeth Irving—and I was wondering before I opened it what gentleman could be writing to me!—she was Well, I never heard such language from any one! She was ungoverned. And the letter was nothing at all, just 'Will be there,' and signed 'R.' Nothing would suit her but that I was a prying criminal. She insinuated that I wanted to read her letters; she wished that she had been named for anybody else; she"

Mrs. Irving made an ejaculation of distress. "Lily shouldn't have spoken like that; she is very quick-tempered, like her father, but it is soon over; not that I am excusing her at all, Cousin Lizzie. You know young girls do mind some things so much. Perhaps if, when letters come in a handwriting you don't recognize, you would wait till Lily came home"

"That is what I always do. No one can be more particular than I," said Cousin Lizzie with dignity. "Is there anything more you would like to have me do here, Marla?"

"Thank you, nothing more," said Mrs. Irving with outward calm, but deep inward resentment. She escaped upward.

Why did everyone come to her with all the disagreeable happenings? This was a fine beginning to the day, indeed; she felt weak before it had well started, with those other anxieties already gnawing at her—Farnham's troubles, so vitally a part of living, and, what struck deeper yet, this affair of Lily's. Mrs. Irving always arranged her own room; she stopped now, as always when she dusted, to look fondly at the photographs of the children when they were little. Lily had always been popular, but when Rann March suddenly appeared on the scene last winter the two had apparently fallen in love at sight. It couldn't "come to anything" for a long time, of course; but no one could help liking young March; he was not especially good-looking, but just the kind you felt was nice clear through—with a football record behind him, and clean, forthright ways.

And then for the last two months he had stopped coming to the house entirely! George Huff and Leonard Cray, negligible youths, were the favoured ones for a few weeks, and since then it had been Rupert Yarde exclusively. Rupert was somewhat older; handsome, if you liked the style, rather delicate, and with little effeminate ways; he had money. Mrs. Irving disliked him intensely; she thought him vain. If he was meeting Lily oftener than she mentioned

If only Cousin Lizzie hadn't told her about that letter! Mrs. Irving knew that it would be on her mind all day, and she really ought not to have to worry; anything that distressed her took just so much strength out of her. And if Farnham's "deal" didn't go through to-day, what would become of them?

A ring at the telephone called her from her agonized reflections. "Is this Mrs. Irving? This is Mrs Bush. How are you?—Well, really, I'm used up before the day begins, there's so much on one. I had a letter from Elsie this morning—I thought you'd like to know; they've been having the most wretched time South; all the children have been ill, and Alec cut his foot; they were afraid of blood poisoning, but it's all right now. She feels quite hurt at not hearing from you since they left, but I told her Yes, yes, I see, of course. Well, to change the subject, I promised Mrs. Tevis—the Tevises are the new people next door, my dear—that I'd speak to you about Jack, for I was sure you wouldn't allow it if you knew—allow him, I mean, to use that sling shot on his way to school. He shoots at their chickens Oh, yes, I've seen him! He killed a hen yesterday. Mrs. Tevis—she's a very nervous little woman—went all to pieces, thinking that he might have hit the baby; they had to send for the doctor. Mr. Tevis says sling shots are against the law. Yes—I knew you'd see about it, dear. You are always so calm about everything! I often wish I had your temperament. Oh, Hilda has just come in. She wants to know if Lily is coming out by train to-night or in Rupert's motor—Hilda wants to meet her. Oh, I supposed you knew. Good-bye!"

Mrs. Irving sat down in the big chair by the window, quivering. The sky was very blue; the hills had taken on a soft, animated haze; the scarlet-leaved maple opposite gleamed like a jewelled tree in the sunlight. It all seemed to belong to a different country from the one in which she lived.

"Marla!"

She turned wearily. "Yes, Cousin Lizzie."

"That washerwoman has hung Cecilia's new blue cambric right in the sun, and it's all fading out; I thought you'd want to speak about it. I'll take those books back to the library for Lily, if you like; the walk is too long for you. They are weeks overdue. Let me see; there will be thirty-eight cents on this one and forty on the other; it's positively sinful."

"Yes, it is," agreed the mother painfully.

She counted out the money from her pocketbook, and, after going down to interview the laundress, she lay back once more in the comfortable chair, her pretty, languid hands crossed in her lap, her face, with its soft, light hair and gentle gray eyes, expressionless. She felt racked in spirit to a degree that affected her physically, as she knew too well! The doctor had said more than the family knew. How could she ever get well with all this to stand? There was no one to take her place. And just when she couldn't stand anything—when she oughtn't to be called upon to stand another thing! And now she would have to nerve herself to confront Jack

When Jack finally came in to luncheon he was unusually quiet.

She spoke with control: "Jack."

"Yes, Mother." He stopped in the doorway, cap in hand, his eyes turned away.

"Look at me! Look at me, I say! Give me your sling shot."

"It's broken."

"Very well; let it stay broken then. I didn't think you were a cruel boy, Jack, shooting at chickens—and killing them. You'll have to go to Mrs."

"That old hen of hers was dead when I shot at it—if that's what you mean!" Jack's voice had a hard, choked sound. "I'm going upstairs; I don't want any lunch."

"Not want any lunch! What's the matter? Why, Jack!" He had suddenly knelt down on the floor, plunging his head in her lap.

"I'm not—cruel. Rover"—Rover was the black dog at the corner—"was run over just now by Rupert Yarde's car, Mother! I saw Rover—I saw his legs" A gasping description of the tragedy poured forth.

Her arms around the boy, Mrs. Irving tried warmly to comfort. "I wouldn't think of that part, you know, dear; I'd only think that it doesn't hurt him now, and what a dear, lovely dog he was, and how happy you made him when you brought him bones. I know you're not cruel! Didn't you say you needed a new tennis racket?"

"Ye-es."

"Well, get it then," she said largely, on the strength of a hoarded five-dollar bill. "Now run upstairs and wash your face and hands. Here come Cecilia and Cousin Lizzie. What is the matter now?"

Well might she ask! Cecilia's pink-and-white frock, as well as one cheek and her light curls, was plastered with mud; her mouth was smeared to her chin with blood.

"Now don't be frightened," said Cousin Lizzie volubly; she herself looked white. "It is really nothing. What is a tooth compared with a life?"

"Oh, my goodness!" exclaimed the mother.

"You can imagine how I felt when I saw that dear child in front of the trolley and the motorman clanging his bell and everyone shrieking at her, and she so absent-minded that she never knew a thing! And a boy grabbed her, just as she slipped and fell against the wheel of the Tevises' baby carriage—that stupid nurse had it right in the way!—and knocked her upper front tooth right out."

"Oh, my goodness!" said Mrs. Irving again.

"And the postman—he was just passing—picked the tooth up and clapped it right back into place and told her to keep pressing it up and to take her straight to the dentist on the way back, but I felt so shaky, dear, that"

"Get Cousin Lizzie the ammonia from my dressing table, Jack," said Mrs. Irving hastily. Heaven knew she felt shaky, too. A front tooth—and a little girl! Why hadn't Cousin Lizzie got it attended to at once? It might be—oh, horrible thought!—too late now.

When she returned from the dentist's she was still tense but partly reassured in this particular stress. The dentist said the tooth would probably be all right. Cousin Lizzie had gone to bed in a darkened room with a headache, but there was no rest for the mistress of the house. Ellen came up to say that the line had broken with the last of the wet clothes on it; the laundress refused to wash them out again, and now what was to be done about it? What indeed!

Every few minutes some additional small harassing need for decision or guidance evolved, bringing her, under her quiet and dignified demeanour, an absolutely despairing sense of its all being really too much for her; she must not have all this on her mind. She wished Farnham hadn't told her how dreadfully much depended on to-day's transactions; if that deal didn't go through What use for her to take her medicine so carefully, and sit on the porch with her feet up?

When the children came later to entertain Cecilia, even then—with everything else on her mind—she had constantly to keep them from disturbing Cousin Lizzie. And as to Lily There was no use talking about it, the mother's instinctive perception forced on her the fact, of which she had tried to keep unconscious, that there was a mystery somewhere. Lily's tacit avoidance of her for the last month was proof that there was something that the girl didn't want to tell; every time that Mrs. Irving's eyes had rested on her beautiful child with anxious questioning the beautiful child had turned away, her mouth set enigmatically.

Of course Lily felt that her mother wasn't in sympathy with her about Rupert. It made the mother feel sick all over every time she thought of Lily's marrying him. Was it possible—could it be possible—that she would marry him without telling any one first? Suppose she was going to marry him to-day! The letter that Cousin Lizzie had opened—suppose that was what it had meant? Mrs. Irving sat up straight with a hand on her strangely sinking heart; it seemed to be stopping its beats. No, no, that couldn't be; Lily would never stab her like that—never! Still Well, if Lily married Rupert, she herself would die. Lily would feel badly then!

She turned suddenly, with a start of awakening, at a voice behind her:

"You look so comfortable there I hate to disturb you. Don't get up! I'll bring a chair over." The speaker, a slight woman in black, with a modest hat, and a small, gold cross pendent to her waist by a black ribbon, had come up the steps at the side. She had brown hair and brown eyes and a very sweet, almost roguish smile.

"Oh, Mrs. Rayne! I'm glad to see you; you haven't been here in ages."

"I should think you'd be glad I hadn't," said the other, taking out a little book with a pencil attached. "I always come to ask you for something for my Girls' Lodging Hall; and there are so many needs now!"

"I can give you only a dollar," said Mrs. Irving languidly, taking her pocketbook from the bag on the arm of her chair and proffering to her visitor a solitary, crumpled bill which she could ill spare.

"A dollar is a good deal," said Mrs. Rayne gladly. "Thank you ever so much! I haven't collected much this afternoon. Some people were out, and most feel there are so many expenses in the autumn. Business is so dull, too."

"Yes, indeed."

"I see the Harkness children are here, poor little things! I stopped at the house just now—such a beautiful house, isn't it?—and Miss Wickes, one of the trained nurses, came down for a minute to say that Mrs. Harkness wasn't any better; it's her nerves, you know. Neither her husband nor the children have seen her for more than five minutes a day for six weeks. Miss Wickes says she is so sorry for him; he seems so discouraged."

"She is fortunate to be able to take a rest. You can't do anything without your health," said Mrs. Irving deeply.

The visitor looked straight before her; for the moment she said nothing. She had naturally an impulsive spirit that hurled her, unless she was careful, into intemperate speech. There were, heaven knew, enough cases of disabling illness! But the phrase "You can't do anything without your health" always moved her hotly to combat; she knew of so many people who did do so very much without it! Why, most of the great work of the world had been accomplished by men and women handicapped by physical weakness or recurring ailment. Even she herself, if you came down to that, in her own little daily round But she swiftly quenched the personal thought with its rising antagonism.

"I suppose very few women out of their teens really feel well all the time," she hazarded soberly. She turned her kind gaze on her hostess. "And how are you?"

"Oh, I'm all right," said Mrs. Irving hardily, but with mist over the eyes that met the others. "Of course the care of a house and family does wear on one's nerves; sometimes I feel as if I'd go wild with all the demands on me. The problems are so never-ending! Very often I think that if everything went smoothly for just one day even, I wouldn't know how to take it."

"Yes, it is trying," said Mrs. Rayne with sympathy; if people felt that they needed pity, then they did need it. Her own husband and child had died so long ago that nobody remembered those dearest ones but herself. The people who unloaded their troubles on her never seemed to think that she was alone and poor, and lived in one little room and worked, rain or shine, for her living—but then, of course, she didn't want any pity! Before she left she told an absurd story about one of her girls to Mrs. Irving; they both laughed over it.

Mrs. Irving sat gazing after her as she went down the street; something about Mrs. Rayne always soothed and cheered.

A shriek brought Mrs. Irving staggering to her feet. She was sure that Cecilia had knocked out that tooth once more, but it proved to be only Jack, completely spoiling all the doll-playing fun of the little girls. He had to be corralled and reproved and brought in sullenly to study his lessons.

When Cousin Lizzie came down, still upset from shock, she had a harrowing letter, brought by the last mail, from her niece Gertrude; the doctor said Gertrude needed change. Mrs. Irving felt that she could not offer the opportunity, yet she tried wearily to be helpful in some way, with that queer sinking feeling growing in her.

If Lily only would come home, and she could look into the girl's face and see that everything was still the same!

But it was Vane who came first, her tall, dark-eyed eldest. She could see him swinging along far down the street, getting nearer and nearer, and was struck by the fact that he was growing to look much older; he had a masterful air. He greeted her gravely as he came in, and Cousin Lizzie to the same effect, and went straight on upstairs.

In a few moments the mother—anxious, she knew not why—went up, too; she had reached her own room when he called her.

"Mother, will you come in here a moment? Sit down; you look tired." He placed the chair for her, and closed the door before he came to stand in front of her. "I've got something I want to say By the way, if you think Jack's studying his lessons when you send him upstairs you're much mistaken; he reads 'The Three Midshipmen' instead. If he takes my best neckties, as he's been doing, he'll get a good thrashing."

"Oh, Vane!"

"But that isn't what I want to speak about; there's something else." He squared himself, his eyes looking resolutely down at her, his jaws set, though his voice was even. "I can't stand this breakfast racket any more, Mother; it puts me all on edge for the day. If I choose to stay in bed half an hour longer—sometimes I don't get to sleep very early—and go off without my breakfast, it's got to be my own lookout."

"But, Vane! When you don't consider your father's wishes"

"Dad doesn't mind half as much as you think he does—not half so much as you do, Mother. He knows I'm old enough to know what I want to do. You don't realize it, Mother, but you get in such a state that it upsets everyone; you look so agonized! If you're going to mind every little thing like that, I'll have to go and live somewhere else." He smiled, but his tone was serious enough. "Honest, I will."

"Oh, it will be all right after this," said the mother. She rose unsteadily. "I've got to leave you now."

She walked back to her own room and stood leaning for a moment against the dressing table. Everything had gone black before her. This was the worst; Jack deceiving her, the brothers quarrelling, Vane wanting to leave

Her heart beat strangely, and she went, half blindly, for her medicine; her very fingertips seemed to be dizzy, but she managed to pour it out carefully, groping her way afterward to sit down on the edge of the bed, pushing aside a newspaper.

The room became wrapped in gathering dusk; the outlines of the furniture were fading out; it was like being in a tomb. She felt quite collectedly—in spite of this queer goneness, as if life were slowly oozing away—that she could stand no more sapping anxieties, no more nerve-racking grievances, little or big. Those around her would have to be made to understand that they must keep their difficulties to themselves, they must get along the best they could without her help; they must be made to understand that any further strain of this kind now, would—not figuratively, but literally—kill her.

She rose after awhile with effort, lit the gas, and sat down limply once more, her eyes falling unconsciously on the newspaper beside her. Yes, that was what Farnham had been reading aloud this morning. The words said then came back to her:

"He was a brave man to stay at his post."

"That was his job."

No deed of courage ends with the perpetrator of it; known or unknown, it swells a great Living Force. Some strong electric current went through Mrs. Irving's veins; she sat up straight, with a strangely awakened sensation. She had naturally a certain downright faculty of facing things fairly; it held her now. Suppose being an effectual wife and mother did kill her—what of that? It was her job, there was no getting around that—the job that she had herself undertaken—to be a wife and mother and house-holder. That was her job. If it killed her it would be at her post!

She thought suddenly with a pitying horror of that poor woman down the street, who now could see neither husband nor children, her nerves and willpower gone beyond control, lapped around with every comfort into her writhing self, with a nullification of every joy, as well as care. To be like that, to have everything kept from her—not to be the centre of the home; not to know what her dearest ones were wanting or thinking or feeling; nay, to have others know when she didn't—why, that in itself would be a living death! As long as she was alive here on earth must her spirit and her heart be passionately alive to those she loved. A torrent of love for them seemed to overflow her, touchingly eager and yearning and hopeful. Why this high note of tragedy that she had been sustaining? Suppose Farnham had bad news to-night, poor fellow—well, that was a lot better than his being ill! Suppose Lily—she winced then!—wanted to marry Rupert; there was really nothing wrong about him, so far as the mother knew; it was only her own dislike and prejudice. If Lily were glad, she would have to be! As for Cousin Lizzie and Lily—she would manage to get the mail herself before Cousin Lizzie sorted it, and put one source of woe out of the way.

She found herself unaccountably smiling. Strange, that the square facing of one's dread, the steady acceptance—if it had to be, though it wasn't going to be!—should bring her a sense of odd and deep elation. She was still sitting there smiling when her husband came in; he did not see her until she turned; he looked very worn and tired.

"Why, Marla!" he said gently. He came and sat down on the edge of the bed beside her. It seemed to her that he eyed her queerly. "How sweet you look to-night!"

"Did the deal go through?"

He shook his head. "No, but we'll pull out after a while some way; this European war has set everything back. I tell you, I felt pretty discouraged as I came along to-night, wondering how we were going to manage, but when I saw you here smiling, something came over me There are lots of worse things in the world than poverty, aren't there, old sweetheart?"

"Oh, lots!" she whispered.

"Only you mustn't do too much; that's the only thing that bothers me; you're not strong enough; you've got to be careful. I don't see how you can do without Ellen, I really don't; but"

"Well, we won't think of that until we've had some dinner," said his wife fondly. "Have you seen Cecilia?" She began recounting the events of the day.

Lily was late; but at any rate she came! The dinner took on an unexpected air of festivity, no one exactly knew why; everyone seemed unusually kind and cheerful. Vane got a footstool for his mother with a playfully admiring remark about her frivolous shoes; Cecilia jumped up twice to kiss her.

Jack said: "You look awful pretty to-night, Mother!" It came out that he was going to a ball game with Vane on the morrow.

Cousin Lizzie promised to make a delightful dessert, a real Irving delicacy of which Lily was particularly fond.

Only Lily sat without speaking, her eyes watchful. But at any rate she was there—how foolish and unnecessary all the mother's vain imaginings!

But after dinner, when she was alone again, lying down in her own room, Lily appeared. She drew a chair up beside the bed, her face filled with new animation.

"Well, I don't know what came over us to-night!" she burst out. "Mother, we've all been deciding something just now: You've got to have your breakfast in bed after this, for a while."

"No, no! Please not!" besought the mother. "I want to be down with the rest of you. I"

"Well, you're not going to—for a while, anyway; that's settled! Father was telling us about things. I'm going to stop the music lessons till after Christmas, my voice needs a rest anyway; and Cousin Lizzie and I are going to do the work while she's here. She says it drives her crazy sitting around doing nothing. I know I can learn to cook a thousand times more economically than Ellen. And Jack and Cecilia will help wash dishes. Vane says you've got to be taken care of, Mother—he is going to buy some of the things for us cheaper and bring them out from town. Father is so pleased; I think he has been through a lot! Now, Mother dear, I know all that you're going to say; you're just the most self-willed person I ever knew, but this time you've got to think of us. You've just got to do as we say and be careful; we couldn't, we just couldn't do without you!"

"Why, Lily!"

"And, Mother"—Lily's face suddenly flushed and her eyes shone—"there's something else—I really wanted to speak about it before, but you looked so distressed and worried all the time—you don't know how hard you take things, Mother; we never know what you are going to get worked up over next—I meant to tell you anyway next week; but there's something about you to-night, Mother—you look so sweet. It's—Rupert and"

"Yes, dearest," said the Mother steadily.

"Well, I've been going with him so much lately because I wanted to see—he was perfectly fine about it; he was willing to take it at that—you don't like him, Mother, but he really is nice! You see, I wasn't sure whether I really loved Rann, and we agreed not to meet at all, or even write, for two months, and if either of us liked any one else better—perhaps it was silly of me, but I wanted it that way And oh, Mother, the time is up Saturday! That was his note Cousin Lizzie opened, and it's been such ages! But I know now—oh, I know now—that it never could be any one but Rann. I can't even say it to you, Mother, but" Her arms were tight around the mother, her face hidden.

"Why, my own darling child!" said Mrs. Irving.