downstairs into the kitchen.

Molly, her sleeves rolled up, was washing dishes for Mrs. Kenny.

"Don't you want to come out with me for a walk?" Fairfax asked her.

"Go along," said Mrs. Kenny, giving her a shove with her bare elbow.
"I'll make out alone fine. The suds is elegant. If you meet Kenny and
the children, tell them there's not a bit left but the lashins of the
stew, and to hurry up."

CHAPTER XIII

There was a divine fragrance in the air. Fairfax stopped to gather a few
anemones and handed them to his silent companion.

"Since you have grown so pale in the collar factory, Miss Molly, you
look like these flowers."

He stretched out his, arms, bared his head, flung it up and looked
toward the woodland up the slope and saw the snow-white stones on the
hill, above the box borders and the cedar borders of the burial place:
above, the sky was blue as a bird's wing.

"Let me help you." He put his hand under her arm and walked with her up
the hill. They breathed together; the sweet air with its blossomy scent
touched their lips, and the ancient message of spring spoke to them. He
was on Molly's left side; beneath his arm he could feel her fluttering
heart and his own went fast. At the hill top they paused at the entrance
to a pretentious lot, with high white shafts and imposing columns,
broken by the crude whiteness of a single marble cross. Brightly it
stood out against the air and the dark green of cedar and box.

"This is the most perfect monument," he said aloud, "the most
harmonious; indeed, it is the only relief to the eye."

On every grave were Easter garlands, crosses and wreaths; the air was
heavy with lilac and with lily.

Except for a few monosyllables Molly said nothing, but now, as they
paused side by side, she murmured--

"It's beautiful quiet after the racket of the shops; it's like heaven!"

Fairfax's glance wandered over the acres of monuments, marking the
marble city, and came back to the living girl at his side.

"It's a strange place for two young people to stroll about in, Miss
Molly."

Molly Shannon stood meekly, her work-stained hands clasped loosely
before her and in her form were the beauties of youth, virginity,
chastity, promise of life and fecundity, and, for Fairfax, of passion.

"Ah, I don't know," she answered him slowly, "I think it's lovely and
quiet here. Back in Troy next week when we work overtime and the boss
gets mad, I'll think of it likely, I guess."