iscuss with Mrs. Caldwell at all. Ted's views on the
duty of a wife and mother would therefore have to be told with the
rest, and she did not want to tell them. Her grandmother would have
little patience with them, she was sure. As a devoted husband, most of
all as the father of Sheila's child, Ted seemed to have won a secure
place in Mrs. Caldwell's affection at last, and Sheila, who had clearly
seen Mrs. Caldwell's original reluctance to the marriage, had no
intention of jeopardizing that place now. Understanding, sympathy,
advice would have meant much to her, but she could not take them at
Ted's expense.

So she walked on, away from her grandmother's house; onward until she
left the town behind her and found herself upon the road leading to
Louisville. Just ahead of her, she saw, then, a familiar figure
trudging along in leisurely fashion, the figure of Peter Burnett.

"Peter!" she hailed joyously. And as he hastened back to her, her
heart lifted buoyantly; her somber mood departed. She did not say to
herself, "_Here_ is understanding," but she felt it. A sudden warmth
possessed her, and that other self of hers, so long banished--the
Other-Sheila of dreams and visions--suddenly looked out of her eyes.

"A constitutional?" inquired Peter. And then, to her nod, "May I go
with you?"

"Oh, yes, Peter, do! Let's have a good old-time talk! Let's play I'm
young again!"

Peter grimaced: "You? You're still a child! But _I_--! It's a
sensitive subject with me nowadays--that of youth."

"It needn't be," laughed Sheila. "You've discovered the fountain of
eternal youth."

And indeed, Peter at forty-six had changed curiously little from the
Peter of twenty-eight. Still slender and of an indolent grace, his
aspect of youth had wonderfully persisted. And having passed his life
far more in contemplation than in struggle, his face matched his figure
with a freshness rare to middle years. He was, it must be admitted, a
convincing argument in favor of laziness--except for the expression of
his eyes; they had something of the look of Sheila's; their gaze seemed
turned inward upon a tragedy of unfulfillment. And unfulfilled, in
very truth, was all the promise of Peter's attainments; of his
exceptional parts. He was still teaching rhetoric to little girls at
the Shadyville Seminary, and, because he had not married, he was still
leading cotillions. He read his Theocritus as of old; he called often
upon Mrs. Cal