d's regular breathing so near her, and the lighter sound from the
crib. "I am a very happy woman," she told herself resolutely; but there
was no outpouring sense of love and joy. She knew she was happy, but by
no means felt it. So she stared at the moon shadows and thought it over.

She had planned the little house herself, with such love, such hope,
such tender happy care! Not her first work, which won high praise in the
school in Paris, not the prize-winning plan for the library, now gracing
Orchardina's prettiest square, was as dear to her as this most womanly
task--the making of a home.

It was the library success which brought her here, fresh from her
foreign studies, and Orchardina accepted with western cordiality the
youth and beauty of the young architect, though a bit surprised at first
that "I. H. Wright" was an Isabel. In her further work of overseeing
the construction of that library, she had met Edgar Porne, one of
the numerous eager young real estate men of that region, who showed a
liberal enthusiasm for the general capacity of women in the professions,
and a much warmer feeling for the personal attractions of this one.

Together they chose the lot on pepper-shaded Inez Avenue; together they
watched the rising of the concrete walls and planned the garden walks
and seats, and the tiny precious pool in the far corner. He was so
sympathetic! so admiring! He took as much pride in the big "drawing
room" on the third floor as she did herself. "Architecture is such fine
work to do at home!" they had both agreed. "Here you have your north
light--your big table--plenty of room for work! You will grow famouser
and famouser," he had lovingly insisted. And she had answered, "I fear I
shall be too contented, dear, to want to be famous."

That was only some year and a-half ago,--but Isabel, lying there by
her sleeping husband and sleeping child, was stark awake and only by
assertion happy. She was thinking, persistently, of dust. She loved a
delicate cleanliness. Her art was a precise one, her studio a workshop
of white paper and fine pointed hard pencils, her painting the
mechanical perfection of an even wash of color. And she saw, through
the floors and walls and the darkness, the dust in the little shaded
parlor--two days' dust at least, and Orchardina is very dusty!--dust in
the dining-room gathered since yesterday--the dust in the kitchen--she
would not count time there, and the dust--here she counted it
inexor