Her Lord and Master. Martha Morton

you know what he said, 'Rest and quiet.'"

      "Pa, you're forever quoting that old mummy," said Indiana. "He's like the ghost in Hamlet. It's settled; we'll go."

      "Well, what's the matter, Kitty? Got anything on your mind?"

      "No, sir; but Jim Tuttle's invited me to the circus, and I'd like to go, if the ladies don't object."

      "Not at all, not at all," said Stillwater, with an amiable wave of his hand. Kitty left the orchard in high glee.

      "She did well to ask you, instead of me, sly thing," said Mrs. Bunker. "That girl's too fond of pleasure."

      "Now grandma—we were young ourselves, once."

      "Speak for yourself, Ratio. I'm going to the kitchen to make some taffy. There's just enough time for it to cool. We'll take it along and give it to all the youngsters."

      "Well, ma, there's a nice breeze blowing, the sun's going down. What do you say to a short spin?"

      "Yes, father."

      "Well, get ready. I'll have the buckboard here in five minutes." He rose, shaking off the blossoms which powdered his coat like snow.

      "There's some on your hair, ma; they're so pretty."

      Indiana rose lazily from the grass, also shaking off a shower of blossoms, and leaned against a low-spreading apple tree, extending her arms on the branches each side of her.

      Glen gazed at her, still thrumming his mandolin.

      "Do you think you'll come to Narragansett with us, this summer?" said Indiana, looking idly up through the branches.

      "What for?" said Glen, gloomily. "To see you dance and flirt with a lot of—of simpering idiots."

      Indiana laughed. Every time she moved, the blossoms fell upon her shoulders, neck and hair.

      "Don't you like me to enjoy myself?"

      "Not with other men."

      "Oh, that's selfish!"

      "Maybe," said Glen.

      There was silence, broken only by the thrumming of the mandolin and the twitter of birds from the recesses of the trees.

      "It's sad, the way those blossoms fall on you, Indiana."

      Indiana shook the branches, and peeped out laughing through the thick shower which followed.

      "You look like a part of the tree," said Glen. "Like a wood-sprite, a Dryad—or something."

      "Or something," said Indiana, "is very illustrative to the mind."

      "I like you best as you are here about the farm," continued Glen, watching her steadily with his dark eyes, and continuing his eternal thrumming. "Just as you are now, in that simple dress your mother made for you, with your hair hanging like that—I always liked your hair hanging—do you remember, Indiana?"

      "Yes, you always liked it, Glen."

      "It went rather hard with me, when you first put it up, and wore long dresses. It seemed as though that were going to be the end of all our good times."

      "But it wasn't, Glen?"

      "No; you were the same old Indiana, although you looked more—the woman. Then you discovered your own power, and you took to breaking hearts. You were very apt at that business, for one so young."

      "You forget," said Indiana, with a sly smile, "there was Grandma Chazy."

      "That's true. An old soldier in camp put you on to all the principal maneuvers."

      They both laughed, looking around cautiously, like naughty children, as though Mrs. Bunker might be hiding somewhere among the trees.

      "I fought shy of you for awhile, then—I was young and unworldly." From Glen's seriously reminiscent expression, he might have been looking back upon another self of twenty or thirty years ago. "And I could not justify your practices at that time. I don't know whether you noticed the difference in me?"

      "Only that you made yourself scarce when there was anyone else around."

      "I accepted the inevitable after a while; but when I see you in the midst of a crowd of men, dealing out dances and smiles, you appear to me like some stranger, with a marvellous resemblance to a girl I once played with, called Indiana. Here, in the country, and up in the Adirondacks you are the real Indiana."

      "That's nonsense! We can't be girl and boy forever. There's something else in life—I suppose."

      "What?" said Glen.

      "I don't know," answered Indiana impatiently, "but it's individual. People must discover it for themselves—"

      "Have you?" asked Glen.

      "No," answered Indiana.

      "I have," said Glen.

      "Tell me."

      "Not now."

      "This sort of life is all very well, but in order to develop, one must see the world, must be of the world. I don't believe in a groove."

      "Your mother did," said Glen.

      "How can you compare me to ma? She's the old-fashioned type, bless her heart!"

      "Look at this day," said Glen irrelevantly. "I believe in enjoying what we have. This is one day out of life. There'll never be another like this—not just like this. The blossoms are going—"

      "They'll come again, next year," said Indiana.

      "Yes, but we may be different, that's the trouble. I'd like to keep this day—everything is so young and tender and spring-like—and you're part of it all. The sun sinking over there; the rosy clouds above our heads—there's a soft, pink light on the whole orchard—it's shining down, through the branches, on your face. I wish there was an artist—the best in the world—living hereabouts. I'd jump on my wheel, and bring him in a trice, with his color-box and his canvas. But it would be even too late—to catch this light. I'd have him paint the whole thing with you in the foreground, among the blossoms—that glow on your face. I'd call the picture, 'Indiana.'"

      [Illustration: "I'd call the picture, 'Indiana.'"

      (missing from book)]

      "And you, Glen? You wouldn't be in it at all."

      "I'd own the picture," said Glen.

      A slight breeze swept through the orchard, bringing a snowy shower from the trees. There was a tinkling of bells, not far away.

      "The cows have just come home," said Indiana. "Glen, what will you do with yourself this summer, if you don't go with us to Narragansett?"

      "I'll stay with the folks, till you all go up to the camp. Then I'll join you on our old hunting grounds—if you want me—"

      "Why!" exclaimed Indiana. "It wouldn't seem like the Adirondacks, if you weren't there."

      Glen smiled gratefully.

      "How are the folks?"

      "Well, thanks. They were talking about you, to-day."

      "I'll ride over there to-morrow."

      "They'll be glad to see you. They love you just—just like a daughter."

      "I like people to love me," said Indiana.

      "So do I," answered Glen. He gazed around him. Nature so beautifully revealed just then, inspired him to speak. "There are not many days like this," he thought, "and now, it is measured by moments. Before it is over I will tell her!" He leaned over his mandolin, watching a little brown bug struggle through the grass, then he gazed upward. The rosy light still lingered on the orchard.

      "Before it fades, I will ask her." Stillwater's caution recurred to him. "'Don't spring anything on Indiana!'