hing
so comfortable and motherly about her, the kind, wise eyes behind the
gold-rimmed glasses were so misty with welcome and unspoken thoughts of
the dear mother Rose had lost, that the girl went out to her sincerely
even as she marvelled that the same years on the same farm which had
given one person added polish and had made him even more good looking
than ever, could have changed another so completely and turned her
into such a toil-scarred, frumpy, oldish woman. Why, when she had been
talking with Uncle Martin he had seemed no older than herself--well,
not quite that, of course, but she had just forgotten about his age
altogether--until she saw Aunt Rose. No wonder whenever he spoke of his
wife every intonation told how little he loved her. How could he care
any more--that way?

Rose's first look of astonishment and her darting glance in his own
direction were not lost on Martin. With an imperceptible smile, he
accepted the unintended compliment, but he felt a pang when he noticed
that to her Aunt went the same affectionate, impetuous embrace that she
had given to him at the station.

"You're losing your head," he told himself sternly, driving into the
garage, where, stopping his engine, he continued to sit motionless
at the wheel. "That ought to be a lesson to you; she's just naturally
warm-hearted and loving. Always was. You're no more to her than anybody
else. Well, there's no fool like an old fool." Yet, deeper than his
admitted thought was the positive conviction that already something was
up between them. If not, why this excitement and wild happiness? To be
sure, nothing had been said--really. It had all been so light. Rose was
just a bit of a born flirt. But he, having laughed at love all his life,
loved her deeply, desperately. Well, so much the worse for himself--it
couldn't lead anywhere. Yet in spite of all his logic he knew that
something was going to happen. Hang it all--just what? He was afraid to
answer his own question; not because of any dread of what his wife might
do--he was conscious only of a new, cold, impersonal hatred toward her
because she stood between him and his Rose; nor was it qualms about his
ability to win the girl's heart. Already, despite his inexperience with
love technique, he was, in some mysterious manner, making progress. The
community--his position in it? This was food for thought certainly, but
it was not what worried him. Then why this feeling of dismay when he
wanted to