t with her, and I
like to think that she was held in his arms, wrapped in it, when they
reached the ship.

I like to think, too, of my Nancy in the glowing room with the wolfskins
and the strange old tapestry--and the storms beating helpless against
her happiness.

I like to think of her as safe in that hidden land, where most of us
fain would follow her--the mistress of that guarded mansion, the wife of
a young sea god, the mother of a new race.

But, most of all, I like to think of the children. And I have but one
wish for a long life, which might otherwise weigh upon me, that the
years may bring back to the world those prophets from a hidden land,
those young voices crying from the wilderness--the children of Olaf and
of Nancy Greer.

WHITE BIRCHES

I

A woman, who under sentence of death could plan immediately for a trip
to the circus, might seem at first thought incredibly light-minded.

You had, however, to know Anne Dunbar and the ten years of her married
life to understand. Her husband was fifteen years her senior, and he had
few illusions. He had fallen in love with Anne because of a certain gay
youth in her which had endured throughout the days of a dreadful
operation and a slow convalescence. He had been her surgeon, and,
propped up in bed, Anne's gray eyes had shone upon him, the red-gold
curls of her cropped hair had given her a look of almost boyish beauty,
and this note of boyishness had been emphasized by the straight
slenderness of the figure outlined beneath the white covers.

Anne had married Ridgeley Dunbar because she loved him. And love to Anne
had been all fire and flame and spirit. It did not take her long to
learn that her husband looked upon love and life as matters of flesh and
blood--and bones. By degrees his materialism imposed itself upon Anne.
She admired Ridgeley immensely. She worshiped, in fact, the wonder of
his day's work. He healed the sick, he cured the halt and blind, and he
scoffed at Anne's superstitions--"I can match every one of your Bible
miracles. There's nothing to it, my dear. Death is death and life is
life--so make the most of it."

Anne tried to make the most of it. But she found it difficult. In the
first place her husband was a very busy man. He seemed to be perfectly
happy with his cutting people up, and his medical books, and the
articles which he wrote about the intricate clockwork inside of us which
ticks off the hours from birth to death. Now a