hat he must either stay,
or take her, too.

She leaned forward. "Piper Tom," she said, unashamed, "when you go,
will you take me with you? I think we belong together--you and I."

"Belong together?" he repeated, incredulously. "Ah, 't is your
pleasure to mock me. Oh, my Spinner in the Sun, why would you wish to
hurt me so?"

Tears blinded Evelina so that, through her veil, and in the night, she
could not see at all. When the mists cleared, he was gone.

XXVI

The Lifting of the Veil

From afar, at the turn of night, came the pipes o' Pan--the wild,
mysterious strain which had first summoned Evelina from pain to peace.
At the sound, she sat up in bed, her heavy, lustreless white hair
falling about her shoulders. She guessed that Piper Tom was out upon
the highway, with his pedler's pack strapped to his sturdy back. As in
a vision, she saw him marching onward from place to place, to make the
world easier for all women because a woman had given him life, and
because he loved another woman in another way.

Was it always to be so, she wondered; should she for ever thirst while
others drank? While others loved, must she eternally stand aside
heart-hungry? Unyielding Fate confronted her, veiled inscrutably, but
she guessed that the veil concealed a mocking smile.

Out of her Nessus-robe of agony, Evelina had emerged with one truth.
Whatever is may not be right, but it is the outcome of deep and
far-reaching forces with which our finite hands may not meddle. The
problem has but one solution--adjustment. Hedged in by the iron bars
of circumstance as surely as a bird within his cage, it remains for the
individual to choose whether he will beat his wings against the bars
until he dies, or take his place serenely on the perch ordained for
him--and sing.

Within his cage, the bird may do as he likes. He may sleep or eat or
bathe, or whet his beak uselessly against the cuttlebone thrust between
the bars. He may hop about endlessly and chirp salutations to other
birds, likewise caged, or he may try his eager wings in a flight which
is little better than no flight at all. His cage may be a large one,
yet, if he explores far enough, he will most surely bruise his body
against the bars of circumstance. With beak and claws and constant
toil he may, perhaps, force an opening in the bars wide enough to get
through, slowly, and with great discomfort. He has gained, however,
only a larger cage.

If he is a