was all in all for her. A real grievance would have
enraged him more than anyone else. In spite of his apparent indifference
there was much of the she-wolf in his nature. He would have fought for
Eden, he would have growled over her, and shown his false teeth at any
assailant that might happen that way. But of danger there was not a
trace. Listen as he might he could not catch the faintest rumor of
advancing foes. And because she had met her husband in the street,
because a woman had stared at her and some idiotic note had come into
her hands, high-noon must change to night, and laughter into tears.

"She is her mother all over again," the old gentleman muttered. And in
his discomfiture he regretted the funeral, the confidence that he had
made, and fidgeted nervously in his chair.

And as he fidgeted, glancing obliquely the while at his daughter, and
engrossed in the torturing pursuit of some plea that should show her she
erred, and bring her to her senses again, Eden's earlier griefs crackled
like last year's leaves. In this new revelation they seemed dead indeed.
Of her mother she had not the faintest recollection; but there had been
moments when a breath, a perfume, something which she had just read, a
sudden strain, the intoning of a litany, an interior harmony perhaps, or
an emotion, had brought to her a whisper, the sound of her own name; and
with it for one second would come the shadowy reminiscence of an
anterior caress. For a second only would it remain with her, departing
as abruptly as it had come, but leaving her to stroll for hours
thereafter through lands where dreams come true. And at such times she
was wont to feel that could she but clutch that fleeting second and
detain it long enough to catch one further glimpse of the past, the key
of memory would be in it, and the past unlocked. But that second was
never to be detained; it was from her father only that she was able to
learn something of that which was nearest to her heart, and again and
again she had sat with him listening to anecdotes, absorbing repetitions
and familiar details with a renascent interest and a delight that no
other chronicles could arouse. On the subject of her mother she had
indeed been insatiable; she had wished to know everything, even to the
gowns she preferred and the manner in which she had arranged her hair;
and her father had taken evident pleasure in telling of one who had been
wife to him and mother to her, and whose life