Part 66

"No," said Alden, "it isn't, but it's a message. Listen."

She sat down, in her old place, but he stood at the table, bending toward the light. His boyish mouth trembled a little, his hands were unsteady, and there was a world of love and pain in his eyes. With his voice breaking upon the words, he read:

"Two separate divided silences, Which, brought together, would find loving voice; Two glances which together would rejoice In love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees; Two hands apart, whose touch alone gives ease; Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame, Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same; Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas:--

Such are we now. Ah! may our hope forecast Indeed one hour again, when on this stream Of darkened love once more the light shall gleam?-- An hour how slow to come, how quickly past,-- Which blooms and fades, and only leaves at last, Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream."

For a moment the silence was tense. Then the hall clock struck the hour of midnight. It beat upon their senses like a funeral knell. Then Edith, white-faced, and struggling valiantly for self-control, reached out her hand for the book.

"Good-night, Boy," she said, "for the last time."

"Good-night," he answered, gathering her into his arms.

"And good-bye, Boy, forever!"

"Forever," he echoed, "good-bye!"

He kissed her again, not with passion, but with the love that has risen above it. Then she released herself, and, holding the little red book against her heart, ran quickly up-stairs.

He waited until the echo of her footsteps had died away, and her door had closed softly. Then he put out the lights, and sat there for a long time in the darkness, thinking, before he went to his room.

"The Lady Traveller"

"They ain't on the bureau and they ain't on the washstand, and I disremember takin' 'em out last night when I went to bed, so I must have swallered 'em." Grandmother's speech was somewhat blurred but her meaning was distinct.

"Well," returned Matilda, with aggravating calmness, "if you have swallowed 'em, you have, so what of it?"

"Matilda Starr! I should think you'd have some human feelin's about you somewheres. Here your mother's gone and swallered her false teeth and you set there, not tryin' to do anything for her."

"What can I do? I can't stand on a chair and swing you by your feet, same as Mis' Bates did when her little Henry choked on a marble, can I? Besides, you couldn't have swallowed 'em. You'll find 'em somewheres."

"Maybe I couldn't have swallered 'em, but I have," Grandmother mumbled. "What's more, I feel 'em workin' now inside me. They're chewing on the linin' of my stomach, and it hurts."

"I didn't know there was any linin' in your stomach."

"There is. It said so in the paper."

"Did it say anything about hooks and eyes and whalebones? What kind of a linin' is it--cambric, or drillin'?"

"I don't see how you can set there, Matilda, and make fun of your poor old mother, when she's bein' eaten alive by her own teeth. I wouldn't treat a dog like that, much less my own flesh and blood."

"I've never heard of dogs bein' et by their own teeth," commented Matilda, missing the point.

Ostentatiously lame, Grandmother limped to the decrepit sofa and lay down with a groan. Rosemary came in from the kitchen with the oatmeal, and was about to go back for the coffee when another groan arrested her attention.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I'm dyin', Rosemary," Grandmother mumbled, hoarsely. "I've swallered my teeth, and I am dyin' in agony."

"Nonsense! You couldn't have swallowed your teeth!"

"That's what I told her," said Miss Matilda, triumphantly.

"But I have," Grandmother retorted, feebly. "I can feel 'em--here." She placed her hand upon her ill-defined waist line, and groaned again.