Flower of the Dusk | Page 8

alone. I don't know what ails you, Roger. Every day you get more and more like your pa."
[Sidenote: Dangerous Rocks]
"How long had you and father known each other before you were married?" asked Roger, steering quickly away from the dangerous rocks that will loom up in the best-regulated of conversations.
"'Bout three months. Why?"
"Oh, I just wanted to know."
"I used to be a pretty girl, Roger, though you mightn't think it now." Her voice was softened, and, taking off her spectacles, she gazed far into space; seemingly to that distant girlhood when radiant youth lent to the grey old world some of its own immortal joy.
"I don't doubt it," said Roger, politely.
"Your pa and me used to go to church together. He sang in the choir and I had a white dress and a bonnet trimmed with lutestring ribbon. I can smell the clover now and hear the bees hummin' when the windows was open in Summer. A bee come in once while the minister was prayin' and lighted on Deacon Emory's bald head. Seems a'most as if 't was yesterday.
[Sidenote: Great Notions]
"Your pa had great notions," she went on, after a pause. "Just before we was married, he said he was goin' to educate me, but he never did."

III
The Tower of Cologne
Roger sat in Ambrose North's easy chair, watching Barbara while she sewed. "I am sorry," he said, "that I wasn't at home when your father came over after the book. Mother was unable to find it. I'm afraid I'm not very orderly."
"It doesn't matter," returned Barbara, threading her needle again. "I steal too much time from my work as it is."
Roger sighed and turned restlessly in his chair. "I wish I could come over every day and read to you, but you know how it is. Days, I'm in the office with the musty old law books, and in the evenings, your father wants you and my mother wants me."
"I know, but father usually goes to bed by nine, and I'm sure your mother doesn't sit up much later, for I usually see her light by that time. I always work until eleven or half past, so why shouldn't you come over then?"
[Sidenote: A Happy Thought]
"Happy thought!" exclaimed Roger. "Still, you might not always want me. How shall I know?"
"I'll put a candle in the front window," suggested Barbara, "and if you can come, all right. If not, I'll understand."
Both laughed delightedly at the idea, for they were young enough to find a certain pleasure in clandestine ways and means. Miss Mattie had so far determinedly set her face against her son's association with the young of the other sex, and even Barbara, who had been born lame and had never walked farther than her own garden, came under the ban.
Ambrose North, with the keen and unconscious selfishness of age, begrudged others even an hour of Barbara's society. He felt a third person always as an intruder, though he tried his best to appear hospitable when anyone came. Miriam might sometimes have read to Barbara, while he was out upon his long, lonely walks, but it had never occurred to either of them.
[Sidenote: World-wide Fellowship]
Through Laurence Austin's library, as transported back and forth by Roger, one volume at a time, Barbara had come into the world-wide fellowship of those who love books. She was closely housed and constantly at work, but her mind soared free. When the poverty and ugliness of her surroundings oppressed her beauty-loving soul; when her fingers ached and the stitches blurred into mist before her eyes, some little brown book, much worn, had often given her the key to the House of Content.
"Shall you always have to sew?" asked Roger. "Is there no way out?"
[Sidenote: Glad of Work]
"Not unless some fairy prince comes prancing up on a white charger," laughed Barbara, "and takes us all away with him to his palace. Don't pity me," she went on, her lips quivering a little, "for every day I'm glad I can do it and keep father from knowing we are poor.
"Besides, I'm of use in the world, and I wouldn't want to live if I couldn't work. Aunt Miriam works, too. She does all the housework, takes care of me when I can't help myself, does the mending, many things for father, and makes the quilts, preserves, candied orange peel, and the other little things we sell. People are so kind to us. Last Summer the women at the hotel bought everything we had and left orders enough to keep me busy until long after Christmas."
"Don't call people kind because they buy what they want."
"Don't be so cynical. You wouldn't have them buy things they didn't want, would you?"
"Sometimes they do."
"Where?"
"Well, at church fairs, for instance. They spend more than they can afford for things they do