Mistress Anne. Temple Bailey

her head. "Peggy and I have just time to get back to Bower's for our dinner."

      "Aren't the roads bad?"

      "Not when the snow is hard."

      Peggy went reluctantly. "I think he is perfectly lovely," she said, at a safe distance. "Don't you?"

      Anne's reply was guarded. "He is very kind. I am glad that he doesn't mind about the Twelfth Night play, Peggy."

       Richard spoke to David of Anne as the two men, a few minutes later, climbed the hill toward David's house.

      "She seems unusual."

      "She is the best teacher we have ever had, but she ought not to be at Bower's. She isn't their kind."

      David's little house, set on top of a hill, was small and shabby without, but within it was as compact as a ship's cabin. David's old servant, Tom, kept it immaculate, and there were books everywhere, old portraits, precious bits of mahogany.

      From the window beside the fireplace there was a view of the river. It was a blue river to-day, sparkling in the sunshine. David, standing beside Richard, spoke of it.

      "It isn't always blue, but it is always beautiful. Even when the snow flies as it did yesterday."

      "And are you content with this, Cousin David?"

      The answer was evasive. "I have my little law practice, and my books. And is any one ever content, Richard?"

      Going down the hill, Richard pondered. Was Eve right after all? Did a man who turned his face away from the rush of cities really lack red blood?

      Stopping at the schoolhouse, he found teacher and scholars still gone. But the door was unlocked and he went in. The low-ceiled room was charming, and the good taste of the teacher was evident in its decorations. There were branches of pine and cedar on the walls, a picture of Washington at one end with a flag draped over it, a pot of primroses in the south window.

      There were several books on Anne's desk. Somewhat curiously he examined the titles. A shabby Browning, a modern poet or two, Chesterton, a volume of Pepys, the pile topped by a small black Bible. Moved by a sudden impulse, he opened the Bible. The leaves fell back at a marked passage:

      "Let not your heart be troubled."

      He shut the book sharply. It was as if he had peered into the girl's soul. The red was in his cheeks as he turned away.

      That night Nancy Brooks went with Richard to his room. On the threshold she stopped.

      "I have given this room to you," she said, "because it was mine when I was a girl, and all my dreams have been shut in—waiting for you."

      "Mother," he caught her hands in his, "you mustn't dream too much for me."

      "Let me dream to-night;" she was looking up at him with her shining eyes; "to-morrow I shall be just a commonplace mother of a commonplace son; but to-night I am queen, and you are the crown prince on the eve of coronation. Oh, Hickory Dickory, I am such a happy mother."

      Hickory Dickory! It was her child-name for him. She had not often used it of late. He felt that she would not often use it again. He was much moved by her dedication of him to his new life. He held her close. His doubts fled. He thought no more of Eve and of her flaming arguments. Somewhere out in the snow her rose lay frozen and faded where he had dropped it.

      And when he slept and dreamed it was of a little brown bird which sang in the snow, and the song that it sang seemed to leap from the pages of a Book, "Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."