wrong note in its harmony.

Mrs. Oldrieve sighed. She was small and colorless. Her husband, a wild
explorer, a tornado of a man, had been killed by a buffalo. She was afraid
that Zora took after her father. Her younger daughter Emmy had also
inherited some of the Oldrieve restlessness and had gone on the stage. She
was playing now in musical comedy in London.

"I don't see why you should not be happy here, Zora," she remarked, "but if
you want to go, you must. I used to say the same to your poor, dear
father."

"I've been very good, haven't I?" said Zora. "I've been the model young
widow and lived as demurely as if my heart were breaking with sorrow. But
now, I can't stand it any longer. I'm going out to see the world."

"You'll soon marry again, dear, and that's one comfort."

Zora brought her hands down passionately to her sides.

"Never. Never--do you hear, mother? Never. I'm going out into the world, to
get to the heart of the life I've never known. I'm going to live."

"I don't see how you are going to 'live,' dear, without a man to take care
of you," said Mrs. Oldrieve, on whom there occasionally flashed an eternal
verity.

"I hate men. I hate the touch of them--the very sight of them. I'm going to
have nothing more to do with them for the rest of my natural life. My dear
mother!" and her voice broke, "haven't I had enough to do with men and
marriage?"

"All men aren't like Edward Middlemist," Mrs. Oldrieve argued as she
counted the rows of her knitting.

"How am I to know that? How could anyone have told that he was what he was?
For heaven's sake don't talk of it. I had almost forgotten it all in this
place."

She shuddered and, turning to the window, stared into the sunset.

"Lavender has its uses," said Mrs. Oldrieve.

Here again it must be urged on Zora's behalf that she had reason for her
misanthropy. It is not cheerful for a girl to discover within twenty-four
hours of her wedding that her husband is a hopeless drunkard, and to see
him die of delirium tremens within six weeks. An experience so vivid, like
lightning must blast something in a woman's conception of life. Because one
man's kisses reeked of whisky the kisses of all male humanity were
anathema.

After a long spell of silence she came and laid her cheek against her
mother's.

"This is the very last time we'll speak of it, dear. I'll lock the skeleton
in its cupboard and throw away the key."

She went upstairs to dress and came