rned in his blood and the
white magic of life's Maytime went, singing, through his soul.

XI

Barbara's "To-morrow"

The shimmering white silence of noon lay upon the land. Bees hummed in
the clover, gorgeous butterflies floated drowsily over the meadows, and
far in the blue distance a meadow-lark scattered his golden notes like
rain upon the fields.

[Sidenote: A Cold Shadow]

The world teemed with life, and yet a cold shadow, as of approaching
death, darkened the souls of two who walked together in the dusty road
that led from the hills to the sea. The old man leaned heavily upon the
arm of the younger, and his footsteps faltered. The young man's face was
white and he saw dimly, as through a mist, but he tried to keep his
voice even.

From the open windows of the little grey house came the deadly sweet
smell of anaesthetics, heavy with prescience and pain. It dominated,
instantly, all the blended Summer fragrances and brought terror to them
both.

"I cannot bear it," said Ambrose North, miserably. "I cannot bear to
have my baby hurt."

"She isn't being hurt now," answered Roger, with dry lips. "She's
asleep."

"It may be the sleep that knows no waking. If you loved Barbara, you
would understand."

The boy's senses, exquisitely alive and quivering, merged suddenly into
one unspeakable hurt. If he loved Barbara! Ah, did he not love her? What
of last night, when he walked up and down in that selfsame road until
dawn, alone with the wonder and fear and joy of it, and unutterably
dreading the to-morrow that had so swiftly become to-day.

"I was a fool," muttered Ambrose North. "I was a fool to give my
consent."

"It was her choice," the boy reminded him, "and when she walks----"

"When she walks, it may be in the City Not Made With Hands. If I had
said 'no,' we should not be out here now, while she--" The tears
streamed over his wrinkled cheeks and his bowed shoulders shook.

[Sidenote: All for the Best]

"Don't," pleaded Roger. "It's all for the best--it must be all for the
best."

Neither of them saw Eloise approaching as she came up the road from the
hotel. She was in white, as usual, bareheaded, and she carried a white
linen parasol. She went to them, calling out brightly, "Good morning!"

"Who is it?" asked the old man.

"It must be Miss Wynne, I think."

"What is it?" inquired Eloise, when she joined them. "What is the
matter?"

The blind man could not speak, but he pointed toward