Dawn

I

BARBARA felt she could not be blamed for detesting Frank Wallace even before she saw him. The Wallace twins lived next door, and those stupid fourteen-year-old boys talked of nothing else but Frank from morning to night. He hated girls; he could shin up a flagpole, using only one hand; he could lick a fellow twice as big as he was; he was a ‘ peachy’ rider; he was coming to stay a whole week, maybe longer. Barbara told her mother she simply wanted to scream every time she saw the twins coming. But she never did more than say, ‘Huh — your old Frank!’ and walk away haughtily.

It could n’t be that she was jealous. She was sure she was not of a jealous nature. When the twins boasted that their cousin Frank could ride better than any old girl, she did n’t even laugh, though the idea was utterly absurd. Why, she had been riding since she was a child, and in only seven months she would be sixteen years old. Besides, it was ridiculous to say that a boy could do anything better than she could.

He was coming on Monday, and his coming made no difference whatever in Barbara’s life. She did n’t even see him. She was very busy with her own affairs.

Tuesday afternoon she glued up a crack in the handle of her riding crop, and when it was done she went into the living-room. Mother was sitting by the window, sewing, and Barbara stopped to look at her, because the sun was shining on her red hair. No other girl in the world, Barbara thought, had a mother quite so beautiful as hers. Just to look at her sitting there, with her hair shining, and that look that was n’t quite a smile on her face, and the white stuff in her lap, made one have a feeling — a warm, happy feeling, yet queer, too.

Mother looked up and saw the riding crop. She said at once, ‘Oh, Barbara, surely you are n’t going to ride this hot afternoon? You’ll make yourself sick, dear.’

Barbara had n’t thought of riding until that minute, but of course she said in a disappointed voice, ‘ Well, Mother, if you’re going to be upset about it — It is n’t hot down by the river, honestly it is n’t; it’s shady there. Don’t you think I’m old enough to be trusted to take care of myself?’

Mother sighed a little, breaking off her thread and knotting it again. ‘I wish you were n’t such a tomboy, Barbara,’ she said. Barbara knew that meant she might go, so now she felt that she must. She did n’t bother to change into riding breeches. She had n’t really wanted to ride, and everyone was too busy keeping cool to notice what she had on.

Bobby was furious at being taken out. All the way down the driveway he walked stiffly, his head down. The Wallace twins were lying under a tree on their lawn, and someone was with them — a tall boy, stretched out in the shade. There he was, the smarty! Barbara’s heart began to thump. Why not show him some real riding?

She felt that the idea was unworthy of her, but at the same time she felt that the opportunity was too good to lose. With Bobby in such a temper, she’d need only to tickle his stomach, which he could n’t bear to have touched at any time, and he’d buck wildly.

The dusty road wavered in the heat, and drops of perspiration were already trickling down her back. It would be mean to tease Bobby. She would n’t do it.

Barbara gathered up the reins and Bobby trotted obediently down the path to the Wallace lawn. When they were close to the group under the tree, suddenly she struck Bobby lightly under the stomach with her whip. He stopped indignantly. She touched him again, and felt him crouch as he gathered all his four little hoofs close together under him. ‘Now!’ Barbara thought. She would sit him easily, splendidly, nonchalantly. Frank Wallace should see that a girl could ride!

Bobby sprang straight up into the air, and came down with a jerk. He sprang again. Frank was sitting up now. So were the twins. This was an old story to them, but they were always interested, thinking there was a chance she might be thrown. Bobby was leaping and leaping again, with magnificent sidewise twists, the muscles under his smooth skin quivering with rage. Barbara sat straight and smiling, the riding crop lightly dangling from her wrist. She wanted to shout triumphantly, rocking there in the saddle; but she preferred an effect of supercilious ease, so she continued to smile, though it was difficult not to be jerky about it.

Bobby’s leaps were less violent; he was tiring of the game. Barbara had always let him stop when lie wanted to, but this time she struck him again, lightly. With a snort of astonishment Bobby jumped forward, stopped suddenly, and ducked his head. Barbara pitched over it.

It was so horrible that she could n’t believe it was true. There she was, on the ground, between the twins. She drew her legs up under her and crouched there, hiding her face in her hands. The twins were rolling on the grass, yelling with laughter. Barbara knew she could never hold up her head again so long as she lived. She wanted to crawl away somewhere and die. Frank was n’t laughing with the twins, but in a minute he would be. She could n’t bear to go on living.

She felt two hands on her wrists, pulling her to her feet. He was looking at her with anxious blue eyes. She realized then that Frank Wallace was very goodlooking, that his hair was black and wavy, and that he was wearing a smart sport shirt, open at the neck. ‘Aw, that’s too bad!’ he was saying. ‘D’ he hurt you?'

Barbara stammered something about being all right. She had a horrible feeling that she was going to cry. She would n’t cry. Nobody ’d ever catch her crying in front of any boy.

The twins were still laughing, and Dexter, the blonde twin, began to hoot: ‘Look at Frank — holding hands! Frank’s holding hands with Barbara! Oo-oo-oo, Fra-a-ank!'

Frank dropped Barbara’s wrists and turned on the twins. ‘You shut up!' he said sternly, taking a step toward Dexter. Both twins scrambled to their feet and backed away, their mouths open.

‘Get out!' Frank said.

He was so lordly, standing there with his arm flung out, that it was easy to see he was a born leader of men. Dexter and Johnny slunk around the corner of the house without a word. Then Frank turned on his heel and folded his arms.

In any other boy this would have been funny, but Frank seemed so strong and brave. Barbara felt that he could do anything.

She had always known that she was a person of action, very impulsive and decided, but now she was standing there, tongue-tied, looking at her feet. She realized that the occasion called for sweet graciousness on her part, but she could only remember how she must have looked, sprawling on the grass.

Frank began to kick at a pebble. Then he leaned over, picked it up, and threw it in a beautiful whizzing curve against a telegraph pole. The shock of the pebble’s striking startled Bobby, who was cropping grass at the edge of the lawn, and seeing this gave Barbara an excuse to do something. She dashed over to Bobby, took the reins, and walked away toward home with as much dignity as she could. Instantly she heard Frank running after her.

‘Listen — wait a minute — ’

Barbara stopped on the driveway. ‘ Yes? ’ she said, fluttering. She thought she must seem like a perfect idiot.

‘Say,’ he said, in a funny breathless voice, ‘I — I think you’ve got awfully pretty hair.’

Barbara was astounded. Boys had always called her ‘ Carrot-top.’ But she had to answer him. ‘ It needs washing awfully,’ she said, and walked on.

Tears of misery smarted in her eyes as she hurried up the driveway to the stable, dragging Bobby after her, and not looking back. She ran to her own cool little bedroom as quickly as she could, and sat there, hunched in a chair. Of all the things she might have said, to have come out with that! Being pitched off Bobby served her right for trying to show off, but why had she kept on being an utter fool? When he said that to her, she might have said something brilliant and careless, like, ‘Oh, really? Do you think so? I had n’t noticed, myself.

Awfully hot day, is n’t it?’ But no; she had to blurt out that she needed a shampoo, and then stalk off without even thanking him.

A tiny breeze came in and touched her hot checks. Daddy was mowing the lawn, and the gentle sound of whirring mixed with her thoughts. She wanted some lemonade, but she was too miserable to go downstairs for it. If she’d only acted like anything but a silly fool, perhaps — She caught her breath. Had —love — come to her at last? Perhaps it was for this that she had scorned all other boys. But now all was in ruins. The thought of what might have been swept over her. She saw herself coming in from a long ride, and Frank helping her to dismount. She slipped from the saddle into his arms, and he held her so for a moment, tenderly. But she disengaged herself with gentle dignity. His love for her would only be the greater. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘you cannot know how great is my respect for you.’ She rested her hand for a moment on his bowed head, and he dared to hope that some day, perhaps —

Then another picture came, and strangely disturbed her. She knew some girls were kissed by boys, but it had always seemed silly to her and she had been sure that she would not allow it. But now — she saw herself standing on the porch in the moonlight. Frank was there, quite close to her, looking at her, and suddenly she felt all trembly. He came closer and closer; he put his arms around her and whispered in her ear. ‘Dearest,’ he whispered. And then —

Barbara jumped to her feet. ‘No!’ she heard herself saying in a queer voice. ‘No, no, please don’t!’ She was frightened, she did n’t know why, and tried to push the picture out of her mind. She walked back and forth, trying to think of something else. Once she thought of going down and telling Mother about it, but somehow she knew Mother would n’t like it.

‘Barbara!’ Mother called from the foot of the stairs. ‘Dinner’s ready.’

She felt a tremendous relief, as though she had come home from some strange place. After all, nothing had happened except in her own mind. Almost happy again, she hurried to wash and change her clothes. He would n’t want to kiss her anyway, and even if he did want to he could n’t do it if she would n’t let him. So everything was all right.

II

Next morning it rained. Barbara had always liked storms; they gave her such a feeling of being safe and cozy in the house. On rainy days mother let her make candy, or she could rummage in the attic and dress up in old-fashioned clothes. Mother seemed to enjoy it almost as much as she did.

But this time Barbara could n’t settle down to anything. She did n’t feel like making candy, and dressing up seemed so childish. She wondered what the Wallaces were doing, but she was too dismal to do any imagining about it. She roamed over the house, looking out of the windows and wishing something would happen. She did n’t care what —just something. She watched the raindrops hurrying down the windowpanes, running together, making little silvery tracks. They thought they were going somewhere; then when they reached the bottom the poor things had to spread out — nothing more happened to them. Barbara felt sorry for them, cheated like that.

The wind howled, and the rain streamed on the roof. Even the trees looked wretched, thrashing their black dripping branches.

About two o’clock Mrs. Wallace telephoned, asking if Barbara might come over to spend the afternoon. ‘She’s so energetic,’ Mrs. Wallace said, ‘I thought perhaps she’d wake up the boys. They ’re dragging around, more dead than alive.’

Mother told Barbara this, and added, ‘Button your raincoat up tight, dear, and don’t forget your rubbers.’

Barbara could hardly wait to get out among the merrily splashing raindrops. The wind whooped gayly, and the trees swung their branches as though they wanted to whoop with it. The world was a gay and joyous place. Even the Wallace house looked different, somehow. Barbara was struck by the way it stood out. It was as though she had never seen it before. And the lucky twins, having him around all the time — it must be wonderful for them!

She considered how she should act. After yesterday she must be careful about the impression she made. Should she be cold, and very grown-up, and polite? Or should she be gay and fascinating? She decided that the best plan would be to be gay and fascinating, gracious, but a little distant. He would see that she was not to be trifled with. Her heart was pounding.

Mrs. Wallace let her in. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come, Barbara,’ she said. ‘Let me have those wet things. You’ll find the boys in the living-room.’ Mrs. Wallace need n’t have bothered to tell her that, Barbara thought, because she could hear the phonograph playing some screechy song. She had always hated cheap song records. It was the twins’ choice, she was sure.

When she came in, Frank was lying on the couch and the twins on the floor. Frank rose at once and shut off the phonograph. Barbara had never seen such courtesy in a boy. They shook hands. She was very gracious, and said not to mind her, but just to go on playing. Frank said, ‘Aw, it’s a bum record, anyway.’ It was thrilling to see that they had the same taste in music.

After that they stood there awkwardly. Frank asked her if she liked to ride, and she said she did. He said he did, too. It was wonderful to feel that they had the same tastes in everything. But Barbara wished she could think of something interesting to say, something that would show how clever she was. It was so hard to be gracious when she could n’t think of anything to say. But her mind seemed to have stopped, and they stood there until Frank said to Dexter, ‘Say, why don’t you kids go out and play in the barn?’

Dexter sat up lazily and yawned. ‘Aw, no,’he said. ‘It ain’t any fun in the barn; is it, Johnny?’

‘Nope,’ said Johnny, promptly. He always agreed with Dexter.

Frank looked annoyed, but he did n’t say any more. Barbara knew just how he felt; it was so tiresome to have children around all the time. She felt that she must do something, so she sat down on the floor and began to look through the dance records. In a little while she came across the new fox trot, the Limehouse Blues, and held it up to Frank. He put it on the phonograph, and when the first throbbing wail floated out his eyes began to sparkle. ‘Say,’ he said, ‘let’s dance.’

He was a beautiful dancer. Barbara was surprised; he was slim, yet he looked rather heavy, and she had thought he might be stiff. But he was not. He glided across the floor slowly and easily, keeping perfect time. Barbara could have danced on forever. The only flaw in her good time was the twins. They had n’t moved from the floor, and they began to grab at her feet. It was perfectly horrid of them! Barbara felt sorry for Mrs. Wallace, who had tried so hard to bring the twins up well. She hoped Mrs. Wallace would never know how they were behaving in Frank’s presence.

Frank behaved admirably. He was awfully mad, Barbara could see that, but he did n’t say a word. He merely kicked at them, hard, every time he danced near them.

When the music stopped, the twins were whispering and giggling; then suddenly they got up and ran out of the room. It was much nicer then. Frank played the Limehouse Blues over and over again, and when they were tired of dancing they sat on the table and talked. Every little while they danced again, just for a change.

Frank said he had known a great many dancers, but he had never known any so good as Barbara. She said she thought he danced perfectly himself. Frank said his father said there was going to be another war, and if there was he was going to be a captain in it. Barbara could just see him, brave and inspiring, leading his men over the top; she had felt right away that he would be like that. She said that if there was another war she was going as a nurse. It was strange that they could tell each other about their inmost thoughts. She had never before found anyone who understood her.

Frank’s eyes lighted up, and he said he’d probably be terribly wounded, and maybe he’d get to the hospital where Barbara was, and she could nurse him.

They were so startled by the way in which life always works out for the best, and by the thought of how wonderful it would be, that they stared at each other. Then Frank said in a low voice, ‘I don’t care how many times I’m wounded, if you take care of me.’ Barbara had known that he was brave, but she had n’t known he was so brave as that. She felt queer, and said hurriedly, ‘Let’s dance.'

For a long time they said nothing. Barbara did n’t care if they never stopped dancing, and she was thinking how mysterious life is, when suddenly something hard caught her ankle. She stumbled, and looked down just in time to see a cane disappearing under the couch. Frank snatched it and pulled, and there was that wretched Dexter!

Frank dragged him out and said sternly, ‘You listen to me, Dexter. You know that knife of mine?'

Dexter’s eyes glistened.

‘Well,’Frank said, ‘I was going to give it to you, but now I won’t! The way you act is n’t even human! If I’d let you have it you’d prob’ly ’ve killed somebody.’

Barbara wondered that Dexter did n’t shrivel where he stood, but children are so thick-skinned. Dexter only dodged into the hallway, yelling back, ’I don’t care! I would n’t take your old knife — not even if you begged me to.’

Frank and Barbara looked at each other and laughed; children are so amusing. They started Limehouse Blues again, and were going to dance, when Mrs. Wallace called from the other room, ‘Children, could n’t you play something else for a little while? You’ve had that going all the afternoon, and I ’m sure there are other nice dance records! ’

Barbara was speechless. She just would n’t have believed it of Mrs. Wallace. When her nephew was entertaining a guest for a little while in her house, to force her wishes on him like that! It would serve Mrs. Wallace right if he never came again. But he was very courteous about it, simply saying, ‘All right, Aunt Dot,’ and shutting off the record. Then Barbara realized that Mrs. Wallace’s voice had had something very patient in it, and that she had said ‘all the afternoon.’

‘My goodness, it’s almost supper time,’ Barbara said. ‘I’ll have to go.’ The afternoon had seemed only a minute long. But Mother said that t ime went faster and faster as one grew old, and now Barbara knew what she meant. She realized for the first time that it was terrible to grow old, and that she was doing it.

Fortunately there was no time to think about it. Frank went into the hall to help her with her things, and when she was opening the door he said, ‘Say, could you go to the Park with me Saturday night? There’ll be open-air dancing, you know.’

‘Well,’ Barbara said, ’I don’t know. I’d love to, if—I mean — Well, you see, I could n’t decide right now. I’ll have to look in my engagement book and see if I’m doing anything Saturday night. Could I let you know tomorrow or next day?’

He looked worried, and Barbara felt her heart thump. But she could n’t tell him until she asked Mother. Then he said slowly, ‘Well, you see — if it’s a good day to-morrow we’re going to the beach to stay till Friday night, and I — I gotta see you again. I’m going home Sunday. Look here — I’ll telephone you soon as I get back. Can you tell me then?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Barbara said politely. She took it bravely, for she had n’t known that life could be so cruel. Three beautiful days that meant everything in the world, simply torn out of their lives and thrown away at the beach! Probably the Wallaces had n’t even consulted him; they arranged things and he had to do them. Being a guest, he could n’t say he did n t want to. It was hard to bear. But nothing could be done about it. Life was like that.

There was still Saturday evening, their one evening.

Barbara rushed home across the lawn. As soon as she kicked off her rubbers she ran to find Mother. Mother was setting the table for dinner, and Barbara told her all in one long sentence about Frank’s asking her to go to the Park. ‘I can go, can’t I, Mother?’ she begged. ‘Can’t I, Mother, please?’ She was following Mother around the table; it did seem as if Mother might stop a minute and listen to her. Put Mother went on around the table, laying down knives and forks.

‘I don’t know, Barbara,’ Mother said at last. She looked a little startled. ‘You’re rather young for this sort of thing, yet.’

‘Oh, Mother, I’m almost sixteen!’

‘ I ’ll see what your father says, dear.’

Barbara was in agony, for she knew what Daddy would say. ‘Oh, please, please, Muddy dear, can’t you make him let me go? I’ll be perfectly all right. Lots of girls go, and — and it’s Frank’s last night. Can’t I have just this one last good time?’

‘Mercy, Barbara!’ Mother said. ‘Don’t crumple the tablecloth like that, dear. If you feel it’s so important I’ll do what I can; but you know how your father feels about your going to dances before you’re eighteen.’

‘Yes, I know!’ Barbara said bitterly, ‘He never, never lets me do things like other girls. I — I just can’t bear it!’ She turned and fled.

Daddy said exactly what Barbara had known he would: ‘I’ll think it over.’ He left her in aching suspense for two days, and she did n’t dare mention the subject again in all that time. If she did he would say she was teasing, and that would settle it. He never let her coax for things as other girls did. And Saturday was the last time she would see Frank. If she could n’t go to the Park she might never see him again. All she would have to live on, all her long life, would be the memory of that one rainy afternoon. The tragedy of love, instead of its happiness, was to be her lot. She would grow old before her time, and bitter, and no one would know the reason. But she must see him again, just one last time.

Those two days were like being ill, she felt so feverish. She could n’t stay in the house, but went off for long rides with Bobby, so that she might be alone and think.

On Friday, at dinner, Daddy said, ‘Oh, Barbara — about Saturday night. Your mother seems to think it will be all right for you to go with that Wallace boy, but I don’t think much of it. Understand, you leave the Park not one minute later than eleven o’clock. You’re too young to be skylarking around nights.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Barbara said quietly. She wondered if people ever died of happiness. She continued to eat her soup. If she showed the least bit of excitement Daddy would change his mind. He had always said she was very nervous and must not be excited, and he was a doctor, so she could n’t argue about it.

She kept out of Daddy’s way as much as possible that evening, and Saturday. It was only natural that she should be excited, in this great crisis of her life. All her will power barely kept her voice from trembling when Frank telephoned, but she was proud of the way she talked to him, gayly, brightly, as though she did n’t care at all.

III

When he came for her Saturday night she knew she was looking her very best. She had put on a tiny bit of Mother’s powder. Frank came in Mr. Wallace’s rubber-tired buggy; the car was being repaired, he said, and anyway, he thought the buggy was nicer. Barbara thought so, too. Mother watched them from the window, smiling and waving, and the twins capered and yelled on the lawn, but Barbara hardly noticed them. She told Frank at once that they must come home at eleven o’clock, and he said, ‘All right.’ Barbara thought he looked wonderful in his white trousers and blue serge coat, his black hair sleeked back.

The first thing the orchestra played was Limehouse Blues, their very own tune. Barbara was almost frightened by the mysterious powers of Destiny. The music and the dancing and the lights all seemed to be there just for them. Everything was so perfect that it was like a dream or an enchantment. It hurt — that nothing so beautiful could last. And yet it seemed to go on forever. Over and over again Frank asked the orchestra to play Limehouse Blues, and Barbara knew that never again would she hear it without feeling dreadful inside. Even then, while he was there and they were dancing together, she could hardly bear it when the first thin notes wailed out and the drums began to throb.

Quite suddenly it was eleven o’clock. The end of everything. They went silently down the steps of the open-air pavilion, picked their way through the crowd on the fringe of carriages and motors around the grove, climbed silently into the buggy, and drove away. The music grew thinner behind them, until at last it was just a faint reminder that somewhere others were happy and did n’t have to say goodbye.

Outside the Park, they seemed miles away from everybody. A coppercolored moon floated in the great arch of the sky. The moonlight made little lacy patterns all along the road under the trees. The woods were a velvety blackness, full of fireflies, and there was a cool smell of honeysuckle and of new-mown hay. Everywhere tree toads were trilling and whippoorwills were calling. Barbara wondered dully how she could go on living after that night was gone.

Frank was not sitting close to her at all, but after a while she felt his arm on the back of the seat. It did n’t touch her, but she knew it was there. She did not move. Little by little his arm came nearer, until it was around her shoulders. She did n’t dare look at him, and she hoped he could n’t hear the pounding of her heart. Neither of l hem spoke. The horse’s feet went plock, plock, plock in the dust.

They came to a fork in the road, white in the moonlight, and Frank said, ‘Where does that road go?’

Barbara answered, ‘It joins this road, farther down.’ Then she added, ‘But it takes us about a mile and a half out of our way.’

Frank turned the horse into it, without a word. The wheels went on crunching, the fireflies glittered across the road, and far away an owl hooted. Frank leaned forward and wrapped the lines around the whip. Then he put his arm gently around Barbara’s shoulders again, and his cheek touched hers. She could feel his hair moving softly against her forehead in the breeze. Somehow their hands were clasped together.

Barbara felt that she should n’t let him do that, but she wanted him to stay just where he was, forever. She could n’t tell him to stop. All the world was so beautiful.

For a long time the horse slowly drew them onward. Then she felt his lips brushing her cheek.

‘Please,’ she whispered gently, ‘you must n’t.’

He muttered, ‘Sorry,’ and rested his cheek against hers again.

Why had she said that? She wanted him to kiss her, more than anything in the world. The words had said themselves. She wished they had not been said, yet she was a little glad. Then for a while she could n’t think any more. She could only feel his hand holding hers, and his smooth, warm cheek. She thought again, if he would only not listen to her, but kiss her anyway, she could n’t help it. And she would have it to remember when he was gone. But she had told him not to, and now it was too late.

It was forever too late. They would never have that moment again. This night, and the woods, and the fireflies, and the moon, all were going away from them; nothing they could do would keep one moment of it. To-morrow he too would be gone, and she would never see him again.

The horse went onward slowly.

Slowly, bit by bit, the long white road went backward under the crunching wheels. Shadows of trees came over them, and were gone, and other shadows came and went. There was the Wallace garden wall, and the sidewalk, all bare and empty now, where she had played hopscotch when she was little. There were the posts of her own driveway, and with a strange pang she remembered Bobby, how glad he’d always been to see her coming, and to nuzzle her pockets for sugar.

Then, quite suddenly, all in a breathless instant, it happened. Frank had kissed her. She did n’t know how it had happened, but she felt the kiss there, a hard, quick kiss under her right eye. She was sitting very straight on the edge of the seat, looking at the horse’s ears, and Frank was saying, ‘I’ll never forget you, never!’

Barbara could n’t speak. She jumped out of the buggy and ran up the porch steps. She wanted to get into the house quickly, where she could n’t hear the wheels going down the driveway, going away — into the house quickly, where she could be alone.

Her father rose from a chair in the living-room and stalked into the hall. ‘Barbara,’ he said, ‘do you know what time it is?’

She stammered, ‘N-no, sir.’

‘It’s one o’clock. I thought I told you to come home at eleven.’

Barbara heard herself saying, ‘I — I did, Daddy. Honestly. We — we left at exactly eleven.’

‘Where have you been all this time?’ His voice was strangely harsh.

Barbara blinked at him. He looked very tall, and his eyes were hard and cold. But he did n’t seem real. ‘Been?’ Barbara said. ‘Been? Oh, why — I — we were j-just coming home. W-wc walked the horse all the way. We t-took the fork, you know. It was such a lovely night.’

Was he going to laugh? Why should he laugh? He did n’t; he looked stern again.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘But you won’t go to the Park again this summer. Do you understand ? ’

‘Yes, sir,’ Barbara said, and turned to the stairs. The kiss was still there on her cheek; she could feel it there. In a minute she would be in her room, alone, with so much to remember. Frank was gone. She would never see him again; but always, always, she would remember him. She might go on living a long, long time yet, but she knew that nothing else would ever matter at all.

At the turning of the stairs she paused. She suddenly realized what her father had been saying. He was still in the hall, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. Barbara leaned over the banisters and said softly, ‘Daddy!’

He looked up. ‘Well?’

‘Daddy,’ Barbara said slowly, ‘it is only just that you should punish me, but I think it only fair to tell you that it does n’t matter to me. Nothing matters any more.’

She thought her father looked startled, but she forgot him, hastening up to her room, where she could be alone.