The next morning Harry went to New York.  Mrs. Filmer, Rose, and Adriana stood on the piazza and watched him leap into the dog-cart, gather up the reins, and drive away at a rate supposed to be necessary in order to “catch the train.”  He looked very handsome and resolute, and the house felt empty without his predominating presence.

“Harry promises to be home again at five o’clock; then, if we are ready, he will drive with us,” said Rose; and towards this hour all the day’s hopes and happiness verged.  For already Harry stole sweetly into Adriana’s imaginations, and to Rose his return was interesting, because he was to bring back with him his friend Neil Gordon.  Neil was not Rose’s ideal lover; but he was unconquered, and therefore provoking and supposable; and as environment has much to do with love, Rose hoped that the heart, hard as flint to her charms in the city, might become submissive and tender among the roses and syringas.

Harry was on time, but he was alone.  “Neil did not keep his engagement,” he explained, “and as I wished to keep mine, I did not wait for him.  I think we can do without Neil Gordon.”  Rose said he was not at all necessary; but she suddenly lost her spirits and grumbled at the sunshine and the dust, and did not appear to enjoy her drive in the least.  They went twice through the village, and passed Adriana’s home each time.  Peter was in his garden, and he saw them, and straightened himself that he might lift his hat to Harry’s salute, and to the kiss his handsome daughter sent him from her finger tips.  The event pleased him, but he was not unnaturally or unadvisedly proud of it.  He considered the circumstance as a result of giving his girl a fine education, and he hoped some of the rich, miserly men of the village would see and understand the object lesson.  In the evening he walked down to the post-office.  He expected his neighbors to notice the affair, and he had a few wise, modest words ready on the duty of parents to educate their daughters for refined society.  He intended to say “it was natural for girls to look for the best, and that they ought to be fitted for the best;” and so on, as far as he was led or supported.

But no one spoke of Adriana, and people generally seemed inclined to avoid Peter; even his intimates only gave him a passing “good-night” as they went rapidly onward.  At length, Peter began to understand.  “I believe they are dumb with envy,” he thought, and his thoughts had a touch of anger.  “Of course, it is better to be envied than pitied; but I wish they did not feel in that way.  It is disappointing.  Bless my little Yanna!  There are many who would not mind her being behindhand with God; who cannot bear her to be beforehand with the world.  It is queer, and it is mean; but I’ll say nothing about it; a man can’t wrangle with his neighbors, and be at peace with his God at the same time-and it is only a little cloud-it will soon blow over.”

He had scarcely come to this conclusion when he was accosted by an impertinent busybody, who said some sharp things about Mr. Harry Filmer’s reputation, and the imprudence of Adriana Van Hoosen being seen driving with the young man.

“Go up to the Filmers’ house, and say to them what you have said to me,” answered Peter, and his face was black with anger.

“I was not thinking of the Filmers, Peter.  I was thinking of your daughter.”

“You have daughters of your own, William Bogart.  Look after them.  I will take care of my Adriana.  She was driving with Miss Filmer, and not with Mr. Filmer; but that does not make a mite of difference.  Miss or Mister, I can trust Adriana Van Hoosen.  She is a good girl, thank God!”

Then still sharper words passed; for the accuser was a peevish, ill-natured man; and his shrugs, and sneering mouth, as well as his suspicious words, roused the Old Adam in Peter, and he felt him firing his tongue and twitching his fingers.  Bogart was a younger man than himself; but Peter knew that he could throttle him like a cur; or fling him, with one movement of his arm, into the dust of the highway.  Fortunately, however, Bogart’s prolixity of evil words gave Peter pause enough for reflection; and when he spoke again, he had himself well in hand, though his eyes were flashing and his voice was stern.

“Bogart,” he said, “you are a member of the Dutch Reformed Church; and you have doubtless a Bible somewhere in your house.  Go home and read, ‘With the froward, Thou wilt show Thyself forward.’  That is a dreadful Scripture for an ill-tongued man, Bogart.  As for me, I will not answer you.  He shall speak for me, and mine.”  And with this sense of an omnipotent advocate on his side, Peter walked majestically away.

At first he thought he would go to Filmer Hall in the morning, and bring home his child.  But a little reflection showed him how unnecessary and unwise such a movement would be.  “I will leave God to order events, which are his work, not mine,” he thought, “and if Yanna pleases God, and pleases herself, she will not displease me.”

Adriana, knowing nothing of this petty tumult of envy, was very happy.  Harry did not go to New York the following day.  He only talked of the city, and wondered why he wanted to stay away from it.  “It is my native air,” he said, as he struck a match swiftly and lit his cigar, “and usually I am homesick, the moment I leave it.  I wonder what there is in Filmer Hall to make me forget Broadway; I do not understand!”-but he understood before he began to speak.

“The place itself is enchanting,” said Adriana.

“We are living in Paradise,” added Rose.

“Paradise!” cried Mrs. Filmer.  “And we have to keep ten servants!  Paradise!  Impossible!  This morning the laundress was also homesick for New York; and she has gone back there.  I could have better spared any two other servants; for she was clever enough to deserve the laundress’s vision of St. Joseph-’with a lovely shining hat, and a shirt buzzom that was never starched in this world.’  Harry, why do people like to go to New York, even in the summer time?”

“Well, mother, if people have to work for their living, New York gives them a money-making impression.  I always catch an itching palm as soon as I touch its pavements.”

“I did not think you were so mercenary, Harry.”

“We are nothing, if we are not mercenary.  What a gulf of yawns there is between us and the age that listened to the ’large utterance of the early gods’!”

“I do not complain of the ‘gulf,’ Harry; au contraire;-here comes the mail! and the commonplaces of our acquaintances may be quite as agreeable as the ‘what?’ of the early gods!” Mrs. Filmer was unlocking the bag as she spoke, and distributing the letters.  Rose had several, and she went to her room to read and answer them, leaving Adriana and Harry to amuse themselves.  They went first to the piano, and, when tired of singing, strolled into the woods to talk; and as the day grew warm, they came back with hands full of mountain laurel and wild-flowers.  Then Harry began to teach Adriana to play chess; and she learned something more than the ways of kings and queens, knights and bishops.  Unconsciously, also, she taught as well as learned; for a young lovable woman, be she coquette or ingenue, can teach a man all the romances; this is indeed her nature, her genius, the song flowing from her and returning never again.

After lunch Rose took Adriana away, with an air of mystery.  “I have had a most important letter,” she said, with a sigh, “from poor Dick-Dick Duval!  He is simply broken-hearted.  And Dick has quite a temper, he does not like suffering so much.  I feel that I really ought to see him.”

“When is he coming, Rose?”

“He can never come here.  All my family are against Dick.  Harry quarrelled openly with him at the club; and papa-who hardly ever interferes in anything-met him in the hall one night, and opened the front door for him.”

“What does Mrs. Filmer say?”

“Mamma says Dick is a physical gentleman and a moral scamp; and she forbids me to speak or write to him.  That is the whole situation, Yanna.”

“It is a very plain one, Rose.  There is nothing to discuss in it.  You ought not to answer his letter at all.”

“Dick says he will blow his brains out, if I do not see him.”

“How absurd!”

“You do not know what love is, Yanna.”

“Do you, Rose?”

“Not unless I am in love with Dick.”

“I am sure you are not in love with Dick.  You are far too conscientious, far too morally beautiful yourself, to be in love with a moral scamp.  I know that you would not do anything deliberately wrong, Rose.”

“Do not swear by me, Yanna.  I cannot swear by myself.  I have actually told Dick that I will meet him next Monday-at your house.”

“Indeed, Rose, you must destroy that letter.”

“It is a beautiful letter.  I spent two hours over it.”

“Tear it into fifty pieces.”

“But Dick can call at your house, and I will just ‘happen in.’  There is no harm in that.  You can be present all the time, if you wish.”

“I will ask father.  Of course, I must tell him the circumstances.”

“And of course, he will go into a passion about his honor, and his honor to Mr. Filmer, and all the other moralities.  You are real mean, Yanna.”

“I am real kind, Rose.  Please give me the letter.  You know that you are going to do a wicked and foolish thing.  Rose, I have always thought you a very angel of purity and propriety.  I cannot imagine a man like this touching the hem of your garment.  Give me the letter, Rose.  Positively, it must not go to him.”

“I want to do right, Yanna.”

“I know you do.”

“But Dick is suffering; and I am sorry for him.”

“We have no right to be sorry for the wicked.  The wicked ought to suffer; sympathy for them, or with them, is not blessed.  I am so glad to see you crying, Rose.  If you sent that letter, it would trouble your soul, as a mote in your eye would torture your sight.  In both cases, the trouble would be to wash out with tears.  Give me the letter, and I will destroy it.”

Then Rose laid it upon the table, and buried her face in her pillow, sobbing bitterly, “I do like Dick!  Right or wrong, I want to see him.”

“I may tear up the letter, Rose?  It must be done.  Shall I do it?”

“Could you not let Dick call at your house once?  Only once?”

“It is not my house.  I should have to ask father.”

“Only once, Yanna!”

“Things that are permissible ‘only once’ ought never to be done at all.  Do you remember how often Miss Mitchell told us that?”

“Miss Mitchell never had a lover in her life.  People always do see lovers ‘once more.’”

“Then ask Mrs. Filmer if you cannot do so.”

“Certainly, she could not be more cruel than you are.  Oh, Yanna!  I am so disappointed in you!”

Then Yanna began to cry, and the girls mingled their tears; and when they had swept away their disappointment in each other, the letter was torn into little shreds as a peace offering; and they bathed their faces, and lay down for an hour.  Yanna was sure she had conquered; but it was but a temporary victory; for as soon as she was alone, Rose began to blame herself.

“I always was under that girl,” she thought, “and I quite forgot about her father being only a stone mason.  Poor Dick!  I must send him half-a-dozen lines; and suppose I tell him that I walk in the mornings, by the little lake in the woods called ‘Laurel Water’?  If he finds me out there, he will deserve to see me; and if not-there is no harm done.”

Yet this second letter, though written and sent, was not conceived with any satisfaction.  Rose was conscience-hurt all the time she penned it; and very restless and unhappy after it had passed beyond her control.  For she was in general obedient to the voice within her; expediency and propriety had both told her at the first, “You had better not write,” and she had not heeded them in the least; but she did find it very difficult to silence the imperative, “Thou shalt not!” of conscience.  Still, it was done.  Then she reflected that Dick would get her letter on Saturday morning, and might possibly come to Woodsome on Sunday.  It would, therefore, be expedient to let Yanna return to her own home the next day; and also to find some excuse for remaining from church on Sabbath morning.

“One little fault breeds another little fault,” she thought, “but it is only for once.”  And she did not perceive that she had called disobedience to parents, and premeditated absence from the service of God, “a little fault”; far less did she calculate what great faults might obtain tolerance if measured from such a false standard.

However, the hours went by, as apparently happy and innocent as if there were no contemplated sin beneath them; conversation and music made interchanging melodies; and again the beautiful moonshine brought silence, and beaming eyes, and all the sweet and indefinable interpreters of love.  And this night Harry, also, felt some of that strange sadness which is far more enthralling than laughter, song and dance, to those who can understand its speech.  Rose did not.  “How stupid we all are!” she exclaimed; and Harry glanced down into Yanna’s eyes, and pressed her arm closer to his side, and knew that words were unnecessary.

In the morning, Mr. Filmer came from town.  He was a small, slender man, with an imperturbable manner, and that mystical type of face often seen in old portraits:  a man whom Adriana rightly judged to be made up of opposite qualities, his most obvious side being that of suave, indifferent complaisance.  He was exceedingly kind to Adriana, and spoke with real warmth of feeling about her father.  “I count it a good thing to have come in contact with him,” he said, “for I think better of all men for his sake.  It is his religion,” he added.  “What a Calvinist he is!  We had some talks I never shall forget.”

He appeared to take no interest in the household affairs, and Mrs. Filmer did not trouble him about its details.  He was, in fact, bookishly selfish; his only enquiry being one concerning the library and some boxes of books which he had sent.  If the garden, the stables, the horses or servants were alluded to, he was miles away; for he had long ago explained to Mrs. Filmer that these things were not necessary to his happiness; and that, therefore, if she insisted upon being troubled with them, she must bear the worries and annoyances they were sure to bring.

He really lost little by this arrangement; for Mr. Filmer’s cleverness and deep learning was the family superstition.  Rose said she “felt as if a clergyman were present all the time papa was at home,” and Mrs. Filmer and Harry spoke with mysterious respect of the great work which occupied Mr. Filmer’s thoughts and time.  Harry told Adriana that “it was a ‘History of Civilization’ rather on Mr. Buckle’s lines, but much more philosophical.”  And it was evident Harry firmly believed in his father; which might not have been the case if the two men had been busy together, looking after other people’s money, or telling smart, scandalous stories in the club windows.

In fact, if Mr. Filmer had deliberately selected a rôle which would bring him the least trouble and the most honor, he could not have done better unto himself.  As it was, whenever he came out of his retirement, and condescendingly put himself on a level with the family dinner-table, he was the guest of honor; for usually his little delicacies were carried with elaborate nicety into the small private room adjoining the library.  Every one tried to make him understand how great was the favor of his presence; and Adriana, though she knew nothing of his peculiarities, was able to perceive even in the passing conversation of the hour, a different influence.  Harry generally set the key at that light tone which touches society in those moods when it chases gaiety till out of breath.  There was always a deeper meaning in his father’s opinions and reflections; and the family were apt to look admiringly at one another when their profundity was greater than usual.

In the middle of the meal, there fell upon the company one of those infectious silences which the “folk” explain by saying “an angel passes”; but which Harry broke by a question: 

“Why this silence?” he asked.

“Why this recollection?” Mr. Filmer immediately substituted.  “What are you all remembering?  Speak, my dear,” he said to Mrs. Filmer.

“I was recalling the fact that I had not written a line in my diary for a month.”

“I congratulate you, Emma!  People who are happy do not write down their happiness.  And you, Miss Van Hoosen?”

“I was remembering some boys that Mr. Filmer and I met in the wood this morning.  They were rifling a thrush’s nest.  I begged them not to do it; but then, boys will be boys.”

“That is the trouble.  If they could only be dogs, or any other reasonable, useful, or inoffensive creature!  But alas! a good boy is an unnatural boy.  Now, Rose, where did your memory stray?”

“To Letitia Landon’s wedding.  She married Mr. Landon because he was rich, and I was remembering her old lover, Horace Key, standing in the aisle, watching the wedding.  There were three at that wedding, I think.”

“And in such cases, two is matrimony, and three divorce.  As to your memories, Harry?  Are they repeatable?”

“I was thinking of the insane pace and frivolities of the past season; and if I had not spoken, I should have got as far as a reflection on the bliss of a quiet country life, like the present.”

“You must remember, Harry, that the ‘frivolity’ of the multitude is never frivolous-it portends too much.”

“And pray, sir, in what direction went your memory?”

“No further than the ferry boat.  It gave me, this morning, an opportunity of studying human nature, in its betting aspect.”

“What did you think of it, sir?”

“I thought instantly of Disraeli’s definition of the Turf:-’this institution for national demoralization.’”

“Is it worse than politics?”

“Yes.  Loyalty to one’s country is fed upon sentiment, or self-interest.  Americans are a sentimental race-whether they know it or not-and Americans do not, as a general rule, want their country to pay them for loving her.  Do you, Harry?”

“No, indeed, sir!”

“There are tens of thousands just as loyal as you are.”

“When women get the suffrage,” said Rose, “politics will be better and purer.”

“Oh, Rosie! are there not politicians enough in America, without women increasing the awful sum?”

“We feel compelled to increase it, papa. Noblesse oblige, if you will read sex for rank.  I intend to be a Socialist.”

“Then you must become very rich, or very poor.  Socialism is only permitted to the very great, or the very small.”

“What of Republicanism, sir?”

“It is highly respectable, Harry.  Men who would be gentlemen cannot afford to be anything else; and I have noticed they are more Republican than Harrison himself.”

“Are you a Democrat now, sir?”

“I love Democracy, Harry; but I do not love Democrats.”

“Do let us change the subject,” said Mrs. Filmer, fretfully.  “In a month or two, the election influenza will be raging.  Let us forget politics among the June roses.”

“Suppose we talk of love, then.  Love is quite at the other end of the pole of feeling.  What do you think of love in these days, father?”

Harry spoke in his lightest manner, but Mr. Filmer’s serious face reproved it.  “Love is a kind of religion, Harry,” he answered.  “We will not joke about it, as fools do.  And it is the same divine thing to-day as it was in its exquisite beginnings in Paradise.  Love is either the greatest bliss or the profoundest misery the soul of man can know.”  And quite inadvertently, his eyes fell upon Rose, and she trembled and resolved to take her letter to Dick Duval out of the mail bag.

But when she went for it the bag had been sent to the post-office, and she whispered to herself dramatically, “The die is cast!” and then she sat down and played a “Romanza,” and wove into it her memories of poor Horace Key, watching his old love plight her broken faith to a rich husband.  Swiftly Horace Key became Dick Duval, and she played herself into tears, thinking of his black, velvety eyes, and his love-darting glances.

Early in the morning Adriana’s little visit was over.  She had made no preparations for a longer one, and after all, the old rule with regard to visits is one that fits most occasions-a day to come, a day to stay, and a day to go away.  She had also a singular feeling of necessity in her return home, as if she were needed there; and she was glad that Harry had to go to New York, and that their adieu was public and conventional.  “We shall meet again very soon,” he said, as he touched Yanna’s hand; and then he lifted the reins, and the dog-cart went spinning down the avenue, as if he had only one desire-that of escaping from her.

In another hour Adriana was at home, going through her own sweet, spotless rooms, with that new, delightful sense of possession that makes home-coming worth going from home to experience.  There was only one servant in Peter’s house-a middle-aged woman, whose husband had been killed in Peter’s quarry; but she had the Dutch passion for cleanliness, and the very atmosphere of the house was fresh as a rose-the windows all open to the sunshine, the white draperies blowing gently in the south breeze, and every article of furniture polished to its highest point.  Yanna ran up and down stairs with a sweet satisfaction.  This dwelling, so simple, so spotless, so void of pretenses, was the proper home for a man like Peter Van Hoosen; she could not imagine him in a gilded saloon, with painted flowers and heathen goddesses around him.

They talked a little while, and then Peter went into his garden; and Yanna took out a white muslin dress which required some re-trimming, and sat down with her ribbons and laces, to make it pretty.  She was tying bows of blue ribbons into coquettish shapes, singing as she did so, when she heard a quick footstep on the gravel.  She drew aside the fluttering curtain and looked out.  A stranger was at the doorstep-was coming through the hall-was actually opening the parlor door as she rose from her chair with the ribbons in her hand.  He did not wait for her to speak.  He took her in his arms, and said: 

“Oh, Yanna!  Yanna!  Where is father?”

Then she knew him.  “Antony!  My brother Antony!” she cried.  “Oh, how glad I am to see you!  Oh, how glad father will be to see you!  Come, let us go to him.  He is in the garden.”

This unexpected visit threw the Van Hoosen household into a state of the most joyful excitement; for around this youngest of his sons, Peter had woven all the poetry that is sure to be somewhere hidden in a truly pious heart.  He was very proud of Antony, for he had accomplished the precise thing which would have been impossible to Peter.  Antony’s life had been one of constant peril, and his father was accustomed to think of him as heavily armed, and fleetly mounted, and riding for his life.  The glamour of western skies, the romance and mystery of the Great Plains, the hand to hand bravery of defending forts from Indians-these, and many other daring elements, had woven themselves about the young man’s struggle for wealth, and invested him with an unusual interest.

So unusual that Peter thought it no sin, on this “eve of the Sabbath,” to break his general custom of private meditation, and listen to the tale of life his son had to tell him.  For it was full of strange providences, and Peter was not slow to point them out.  And though Antony was reticent on spiritual experiences that were purely personal, his father understood that in those vast lonely places he had heard a Voice, that never again leaves the heart that hears it.

There was a fine sincerity, a sincerity like that of light, in Antony’s nature; his moral sense was definite, his words were truthful; he was another Peter Van Hoosen transplanted into larger atmospheres, and nourished in tropical warmth.  Speaking physically, he was not handsome; speaking morally, he was very attractive.  His fine soul erected his long spare form, gave the head its confident poise, made the face luminous, and the step firm and elastic.  It was like breathing in a high atmosphere to be with him; for he shared himself with his fellows, and poured his life freely into other lives.  Was it, then, any wonder that Peter and Yanna gave themselves entirely, that first happy day of reunion, to a son and a brother, so lovable and so attracting?

There was no wonder, either, that in the cool of the evening, Yanna-with a conscious pride in her brother’s appearance-asked him to walk to the post-office with her.  She wished to experience some of that pleasant surprise which his reappearance in his native village was likely to make.  But the girls she hoped to meet thought Antony was “one of the Yorkers from Filmer’s place,” and they kept on the other side of the street.  Not always do our ships go by in the night; sometimes we see them pass in the daytime, and are too proud, or too careless, to hail them.  One of these girls had been a dream in Antony’s heart for years; he had really thought of wooing her for his wife.  But she was envious of Yanna, and passed on the other side, and fortune did not follow, nor yet meet her, ever again.

Because the next day was the Sabbath, there was no visiting nor receiving of visits in Peter’s house; though the young man was recognized at church, and welcomed by many of his old acquaintances.  And early Monday morning Yanna began to expect Rose.  She looked forward to her visit, and kept Antony by her side on many pretenses, until the day became too warm to hope longer.  Then she wrote to Rose a letter, and, in the cool of the afternoon, Antony went with her to post it.  They were walking slowly down the locust-shaded street, and talking of the girl whom Antony had thoughts of wooing, when Harry, driving Rose, turned into the street a hundred yards behind them.  Instantly, both were aware of Yanna and her strange escort.

“Do you see that?” asked Rose, with a wondering intensity.  “Now, who can he be?”

“How should I know?” answered Harry-and he drew the reins, and made the horses keep the distance.  He had himself received a severe check; he did not know whether he wished to proceed or to turn back.

“Yanna never told me about him.”

“Girls never do tell all.  Will you now call on Miss Van Hoosen?”

“Why not?”

“You might be the one not necessary.”

“Indeed, I shall call.  I told Yanna I would see her to-day.  I shall not break my word, for any man.  I dare say he is one of her father’s builders, or architects, or-some one of that kind.  I do wonder if Yanna is deceitful!”

“All girls are deceitful.”

“They walk humbly after the men, in that rôle, Harry.  Drive a mile up the road; then, as we return, we can pass Mr. Van Hoosen’s house.  If Yanna is at home, I shall see it, or know it, or feel it; and that fellow will doubtless have been left outside somewhere.”

“That fellow,” however, with Yanna at his side, was on the doorstep to welcome Harry and Rose.  He lifted Rose like a feather-weight from the dog-cart, and he was ready with outstretched hand, when Yanna said, “This is my brother Antony.”  The “brothership” was such a relief to Harry that it made him most unusually friendly and gay-tempered; and Rose readily adopted the same tone.  They sat down on the piazza, behind the flowering honeysuckles, and amid broken little laughs and exclamations, grew sweetly, and yet a little proudly, familiar.  After a short time, however, Rose said she “wanted to speak to Yanna very particularly.”  Then the girls went into the parlor; and the two young men lit their cigars, and walked through the garden to smoke, and to find Peter; but both, moved by the same impulse, made the same involuntary pause before the open window at which Rose and Yanna sat.  Their faces were eager and serious, their hands dropped, their attitudes had the perfect grace of nature; they were beautiful, and the more so because they were unconscious of it.  Rose was just saying to Yanna, as Harry and Antony glanced at them: 

“Dick has written again to me, Yanna.  I had a letter from him this morning.”

“Is he not impertinent?”

“He is anxious and miserable.  I fear I shall have to see him.”

“If you fear it, you certainly ought not to see him.”

“He says he is coming to Woodsome.  Yanna, why did you never tell me about this wonderful brother of yours?”

“I have not seen him since I was a little girl.  I did not expect ever to see him again.  His coming was a perfect surprise.”

“He is strikingly handsome.”

“He is not handsome at all, Rose.”

“He is handsome.  I have never seen any one more handsome.  He is like an antique man.”

“Quite the contrary, he is the very incarnation of the New World.  His loose garments, his easy swing, his air of liberty, all speak of the vast unplanted plains beyond civilization.”

“Pshaw! I look deeper than you do.  He is a man that could love a woman unto death.  Is that not antique?  He has a heart that would never fail her in any hour.  You might tell him a secret, and know that fire could not burn it out of him.  If you were at death’s door, he would die for you.  I have a great mind to fall in love with him.”

“Not so, Rose.  He is not of your world; and you would be wretched in his world.  He is thinking of a girl in the village.  You have described an ideal Antony.  How, indeed, could you find out so much in twenty or thirty minutes?”

“The soul sees straight and swift.”

“But you do not see with your soul, Rose.”

“Yes, I do.  What I have said is true.  I don’t know how I know it is true; but it is true.  Father was saying last night that some people have a sixth sense, and that by it they see things invisible-he was referring to George Fox and Swedenborg-and then he began to wonder if we had not once possessed seven senses; he thought there was inborn assurance of it, because people quite unconsciously swear by their seven senses.  But five, or six, or seven, I am inclined to fall in love with Antony Van Hoosen, with the whole of them.”

“And Dick?”

“I had forgotten.  Would you see him if you were me? or even write to him?”

“Have you written to him?”

Rose became scarlet and nervous.  She could not tell a lie with that bland innocence of aspect which some women acquire; she had even a feeling of moral degradation, when she uttered the little word, “No.”

“Then I would not write on any account.  I feel sure your love for Dick is only sentiment.”

“Do you know anything about love or sentiment, Yanna?  You did not care whether Harry admired you or not.  Harry felt your coldness; he thinks nice women ought to be sentimental, and I can tell you, he is accustomed to being thoroughly appreciated.”

By this time it was growing dusk, and the three men were seen coming together towards the house.  They were walking slowly and talking earnestly, and Yanna said: 

“I wonder what subject interests them so much?”

“Politics or religion, I suppose; but whichever it is, they will utter nonsense as soon as we are within hearing.  Here comes Harry with a laugh and a platitude!”

“Pardon us, Miss Van Hoosen; we quite forgot that time moved.  Have you been very impatient, Rose?”

“We have both felt hurt.  If you had been talking to Yanna and me, you would have been worrying about the horses, and about the steep roads, and the night miasma, and lots of other things; in fact, you would have had a bad, bad cough, by this time, Harry.”

“I know it, Rose; and I beg you a thousand pardons.  You must blame my hosts.  I never enjoyed talking so much before.”  Then he gave his hand to Antony with a frankness that had something very confiding in it.  “Shall I call for you to-morrow?” he asked.  “We can get a good boat at the river side.”

“Thank you,” answered Antony, “I will go.”

“Cannot we go also?” enquired Rose.

Then Harry hesitated.  He wanted Yanna to say something, and she said nothing.  That decided the question.  “It is quite impossible, Rose,” he answered.  “We are going on the river to fish-a little dirty boat, and the blazing sun beating on the river-what pleasure could you have?”

“What pleasure can you have?  I do not believe you are going a-fishing at all.  You are going a-talking, and we could help you;” then, turning to Yanna, she asked:  “When are you coming to Filmer again?  Not for a week?  That will never do.  I shall go against your brother if he parts us for so long.”

The last words were lost in the clatter of the horse’s hoofs; and then there was a sudden silence.  For the mere idea of departing stops the gayest conversation, makes the quietest person fidgety, the slowest, in a hurry; and introduces something of melancholy, whether we will or not.  Perhaps, indeed, there is in every parting some dim foreshadowing of the Great Parting, and the involuntary sigh, with which we turn inward from a departing guest, is a sign from that language below the threshold we so seldom try to understand.

The acquaintance thus pleasantly begun grew rapidly to something more personal and familiar.  Harry and Antony were constantly together; and the young man from the west exercised that peculiar influence over the city-bred man that a radical change in circumstances might have done.  Antony was a new kind of experience.  Out on the river, or wandering over the hills together, they had such confidences as drew them closer than brothers.  And this intimacy naturally strengthened those tenderer intimacies from which, indeed, their own friendship received its charm and crown.

For Harry soon fell into the habit of calling at Peter Van Hoosen’s house for Antony; and in such visits he saw Adriana constantly, under the most charming and variable household aspects.  It was early morning, and she was training the vines, or dusting the room, or creaming butter for a cake; but he thought her in every occupation more beautiful than in the last one.  Or the young men were returning at night-fall from a day’s outing, weary and hungry; and she made them tea, and cut their bread and butter and cold beef; and such occasions-no matter how frequently they occurred-were all separate and distinct in Harry’s memory.

This familiarity also on her father’s hearth invested Adriana with an atmosphere that a wrong or a trifling thought could not enter.  Walking with her in the moonshine on the Filmer piazzas, he had ventured to say, and to look more love than was possible in the sanctity of her home and in the presence of her adoring father and brother.  In fact, confidence in his own position left him; he began to have all the despondencies, and doubts, and sweet uncertainties, that lovers must endure, if they would not miss the complementary joys of dawning hopes, of looks and half-understood words, and of that happy “perhaps” that lifts a man from despairing into the seventh heaven of love’s possible blessedness.  This, indeed, is the best heart education a man can possibly receive.  In it, if he be a man, he gets that straightness of soul in which he loses “I” and then finds it again in that other one for whom his soul longs.

Unconsciously as a tree grows, Harry grew in the school of love; and Adriana was also much benefited by this change of base in Harry’s wooing.  She had been learning too fast.  It takes but a moment to drop the flower-seed into the ground; and it takes but a glance of the eye for love’s wondrous prepossession to be accomplished; but seed and passion alike, if they would reach a noble fruition, must germinate; must put forth the tender little leaves that lie asleep at the root and the heart; must spread upward to the sunshine, before they blossom like the rose in beauty and in perfume.  And for these processes time is absolutely necessary.

An experience similar in kind was in progress between Antony and Rose, but the elements were more diverse.  Rose had had many admirers; and she had permitted herself a sentimental affection for Dick Duval, the most unworthy of them all.  She knew that she was morally weak, and that the only way to prevent herself from committing imprudences was to keep to the roadway of conventional proprieties; and in the main she was wise enough to follow this course.  Her feelings about Antony were conflicting; she did not consider him a conventionally proper lover.  He was the son of a working man; he lived a life beyond social restraints; she supposed him to be rather poor than rich; he did not dress as the men she knew dressed; his conversation was provocative of discussion, it compelled a person to think, or to answer like a fool-a startling vulgarity in itself-and he was so obtrusively truthful.

In a lover, as yet unaccepted, she felt this last quality to be embarrassing.  It made him incapable of comprehending those fine shades of flirtation by which a clever woman indicates “she will, and she will not,” by which she hesitates a liking, and provokes the admiration she can either refuse or accept.  If she looked at Antony, with a sweet, long gaze, and then sighed, and cast her eyes down, Antony was moved to the depths of his soul, and he would frankly tell her so; which at that stage of proceedings was very inconvenient.  If she permitted him to hold her hand, and walk with her in silent bliss under the stars, she was compelled at their next meeting to set him back with a cruel determination he could neither gainsay nor complain of.  He was happy, and he was wretched.  Often he determined to return westward forever, and then in some of the occult ways known to womanhood, Rose tied him to her side by another knot, more invisible and more invincible than the rest.

She loved him.  She was resolved to marry him-sometime.  “But I want one more season in society,” she said to herself, one day, as she reviewed the position in her luxurious solitude-“though for the matter of that, it is the young married women now who have all the beaux, and all the fun.  And if I were married, I should be safe from Dick; and I am afraid of Dick.  Dick isn’t good; on the contrary, he is very bad.  I like good men.  I like Antony Van Hoosen.  I will let him propose to me.  If I were engaged, or supposed to be engaged, all the young men would immediately fancy I was the only girl in the universe-but I never can find another lover like Antony Van Hoosen!  The man would die for me.”

She talked of him continually to Adriana, and hoped that Adriana would say to Antony the things she did not herself wish to say.  She gave Adriana hopes that Adriana might give them to Antony.  And then Adriana was so provokingly honorable as to regard the confidence as inviolable.  And, indeed, Antony was that kind of a lover who thinks it a kind of sacrilege to babble about his mistress, or to speculate concerning her feelings, even with his sister.  His love, with all of joy and sorrow it caused him, was a subject sacred as his own soul to him.

Of course, Mrs. Filmer was not blind to events so closely within her observation; she was far too shrewdly alive to all of life’s possibilities to ignore them.  But she did not fear her own daughter.  She made allowances for her youth, and therefore for her sentimentalities, which she thought were as much a part of it as her flexible figure or her fine complexion.  “This primitive gentleman from the plains has had it all his own way,” she thought.  “If we had more company, he would have been less remarkable.  But company would have interfered with Henry’s great work, and it has been hard enough to keep the necessary quiet for his writing, as it is.  However, we shall go to New York soon; and then adieu! Mr. Van Hoosen.  He sings a song about the ’Maids of California.’  I shall tell him it will be proper at his age to make a selection very soon from them.”

Under circumstances like these, the summer and the autumn passed away like a vivid dream.  Adriana was much at Filmer Hall; and Rose very frequently spent the day with Adriana in her home.  Mrs. Filmer was too wise to oppose the constant companionship.  She regarded it merely as a contingent of country life; and she quieted any irritable thoughts by the reflection that her daughter would marry early, and have other interests, and then put away her girlish, immature predilections of every kind.  And in the meantime, she was rather glad that Rose should have an “interest,” for Rose could make herself very tiresome if she was without one.

At length the chrysanthemums were beginning to bloom, and Mrs. Filmer spoke decidedly of a return to the city.  Mr. Filmer had written a whole chapter of his book, and felt the need of change and mental rest; and Mrs. Filmer reminded Rose that her costumes for the coming season were all to buy; and the house was not yet put in order for the winter’s entertaining.  Harry said they were leaving the country just when it was most charming; but even Harry was not averse to an entire reconstruction of his life.  He was still deeply in love with Adriana, and strongly attached to Antony, but he was a little tired of walking, and driving, and boating.  The idea of his club, of the opera, and the theatres, of dinners and dances, came pleasantly into his imagination.

Then arrived the time of displaced furniture, and of days sad with the unrest of packing and the uncertainties of parting.  Harry began to think; and Antony thought more positively than he had ever before done.  Adriana was silent and full of vague regrets; she had dreamed such a happy dream all summer; would the winter days carry it away?  Rose was also quiet and a little mournful; but her regrets were flashed with hopes.  She was looking forward to new conquests; and yet she was strangely averse to resign the one great heart that had been her worshipper through the happy summer months.

All alike were waiting for an opportunity.  And the days went by, and it did not come, because it was watched for.  But suddenly Mrs. Filmer resolved to give a “Good-bye Ball,” and then, when everybody’s thoughts were on the trivialities of flowers and ribbons, destiny, one morning, called them to account for the love she had given.  She wanted to know what harvest of joy or sorrow had been grown upon the slopes of the sunny summer days, and whether the love that had brightened them was to be homed forever in faithful hearts; or cast out wounded and forlorn, to perish and be forgotten on the hard highways of selfish and mercenary life!