she desire the raw material, the concrete
substance, to which all dreams owe their being. The wild pagan gladness
of the wood-nymph, rejoicing in her freedom from the worries of common
mortals, and in the vision of an undefined but absolute happiness, was
enough for her. Sometimes, when walking in the early morning, far into
the hills, and away from human eyes, she let the light electric breezes
intoxicate her, and danced as she walked, or sang; nor, indeed, was she
above whistling. She often spent the evening hours on the marsh, those
long twilights that are so like England's; remaining, sometimes, as late
into the night as the tide would permit, enjoying the contrast of the
lonely desolate menacing landscape with the utter beauty of the day. She
avoided San Francisco and Rosewater, but the extraordinary effervescence
within her demanded an outlet of a sort, and she was so radiant to her
small staff that they looked upon her with awe. She had actually a
fortnight of bliss, and hoped that nothing might happen to disturb it
for ever and ever. But no one's world has ever yet stood still.

One day Tom Colton's hoarse voice over the telephone begged her to "come
at once." She was on her horse in ten minutes, in Rosewater in half an
hour. There were groups of people in the street near the younger
Coltons' house, the front door was open, several members of the family
were passing in and out. As she entered the garden she saw one of them
tie a knot of white ribbon to the bell knob.

Her first impulse was to run. She felt that rather would she hear of
Gwynne's death than face Anabel in her maternal agony. But she set her
teeth and went on, far more frightened than sympathetic. The people that
overflowed the hall and parlor were all crying, but nodded to her, and
Tom Colton, haggard and white, appeared at the head of the stair and
beckoned. He pointed to the door of his wife's bedroom, as she ascended,
and she went forward hastily and entered without knocking. Anabel was
standing on the threshold of the door that led into the nursery. Her
face was white and wild, but she had not been crying.

"Isabel!" she exclaimed, in loud astonished voice, "my baby is dead! My
baby is dead!"

Then Isabel, greatly to her own surprise, dropped into a chair and burst
into vehement tears. For the moment the child was hers, she suffered
pangs of maternal bereavement that seemed to tear her breast and twist
her heart. But there was a terrible s