helter.

Warrington stopped his horse. He had no desire to ride closer; he
could see everything well enough from where he sat. Rosy apples
twinkled in the orchard on the hill, and golden pumpkins glistened
afield, for by now Phoebus had come to his own. How many dawns had he
seen from yonder windows, in summer and winter, in autumn and spring?
How many times had he gone dreaming to the markets over this road? It
was beyond counting. Had any of those particular dreams come true? Not
that he could recollect, for he had never dreamed of being a
successful dramatist; that good fortune had been thrust upon him. He
tried to picture his father walking toward the fields; it was too
remote. His mother? Of her he could recollect positively nothing. But
the aunt, he saw her everywhere,--in the garden, in the doorway, in
the window, by the old well. Now she was culling hollyhocks along the
stone wall, now she was coming down the hill with an apron filled with
apples, now she was canning preserves and chili sauce in the hot
kitchen, or the steel-rimmed spectacles were shining over the worn
pages of the New Testament at night.

What was the use? To-day is alien to yesterday; an hour separates as
definitely as eternity. There was nothing there for him; so he wheeled
and rode back toward the city, conning over a speech he was to make
that night. Since Patty had not ridden this way, the zest of the
morning's ride was gone. Which road did she take now? To the west, to
the south, to the north round the lake? Twice the night before he had
started for the telephone to inquire, but had not taken down the
receiver. Was he afraid? He could not say. And afraid of what? Still
less could he tell. Three months ago he had called her Patty, had
jested and laughed with her; and now he hesitated to call her up by
telephone. No, he was not afraid of Patty; he was simply afraid of
himself. For he realized this--that in the moment he spoke to her
alone his love would spring from his lips like a torrent; nothing
could stop it; and he was not of that supreme courage at present that
spurs the lover to put it to the touch to win or lose it all.

So, then, he rode back to the city, hugging his doubt and his love,
with frequent lucid intervals that were devoted to his forthcoming
speech. When the battle was over, when he had won or lost, then he
would go to her and drink the cup, bitter or sweet.

Patty had not spent the night in comfort; her head had ro