"He is well?"

"Oh, yes. He prefers his food cut finely, that is all."

"I don't suppose he will live very long."

"He's pretty old," admitted Neeland.

She sighed and looked out of the window at the kitten in the garden.

And, after an interval of silence: "Our plot in the cemetery--is it--pretty?"

"It is beautiful," he said, "under the great trees. It is well cared

for. I had them plant the shrubs and flowers you mentioned in the list

you sent me."

"Thank you." She lifted her eyes again to him. "I wonder if you

realise how--how splendid you have always been to me."

Surprised, he reddened, and said awkwardly that he had done nothing.

Where was the easy, gay and debonaire assurance of this fluent young

man? He was finding nothing to say to Rue Carew, or saying what he

said as crudely and uncouthly as any haymaker in Gayfield.

He looked up, exasperated, and met her eyes squarely. And Rue Carew

blushed.

They both looked elsewhere at once, but in the girl's breast a new

pulse beat; a new instinct stirred, blindly importuning her for

recognition; a new confusion threatened the ordered serenity of her

mind, vaguely menacing it with unaccustomed questions.

Then the instinct of self-command returned; she found composure with

an effort.

"You haven't asked me," she said, "about my work. Would you like to

know?"

He said he would; and she told him--chary of self-praise, yet eager

that he should know that her masters had spoken well of her.

"And you know," she said, "every week, now, I contribute a drawing to

the illustrated paper I wrote to you about. I sent one off yesterday.

But," and she laughed shyly, "my nostrils are no longer filled with

pride, because I am not contented with myself any more. I wish to

do--oh, so much better work!"

"Of course. Contentment in creative work means that we have nothing

more to create."

She nodded and smiled: "The youngest born is the most tenderly cherished--until a new one

comes. It is that way with me; I am all love and devotion and

tenderness and self-sacrifice while fussing over my youngest. Then a

still younger comes, and I become like a heartless cat and drive away

all progeny except the newly born."

She sighed and smiled and looked up at him: "It can't be helped, I suppose--that is, if one's going to have more

progeny."

"It's our penalty for producing. Only the newest counts. And those to

come are to be miracles. But they never are."

She nodded seriously.

"When there is a better light I should like to show you some of my

studies," she ventured. "No, not now. I am too vain to risk anything

except the kindest of morning lights. Because I do hope for your

approval----"




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