CHAPTER XI

LIFE presents so many problems for consideration, and so many duties to perform, that it is sometimes next to impossible to remember to feed one's chickens. It was nearly four o'clock when Mrs. Eden, thanks to much superfluous crowing from the back lot, cackling without eggs, and singing without music, awoke to this truism. Remorsefully she hastened to the barn, for the old battered tin pan, in which feed had been mixed with water for as long a time as a tin pan may, without too copious a leakage, be used in that tri-daily service.

Mrs. Eden had passed an unusually busy day, which means that she had done a prodigious amount of work; and when the chickens were pacified,-we say not "satisfied," for what fowl is ever altogether at peace with the world, save one scratching in a neighbor's yard? Mrs. Eden returned rather stiffly to her cottage. She sank with a deep sigh into her chair, and reached wearily for her sewing. Mrs. Eden reflected that no matter how much she might do, there was always something "next." She did not often give way to this rather discouraging train of thought, but to-day she was troubled. She knew that Mary was unhappy. Peter's devotion to Goldie Pickens was discussed by "everybody." Mrs. Eden had never been partial to Peter, but she had sympathized with Mary's pride in the one Thornberry who sought to drag his rather reluctant family up the mount of popular admiration. She was not sure that Mary had been in

love with the Thornberry mentor, but there had, at least, been sentiment on the part of both. And now for the "whole town" to become aware of Goldie's ascendency was bitter to the mother-heart.

To speak of the "whole town" knowing that Peter had ceased his frequent visits at Mrs. Eden's, to become a very shadow to the "new music-teacher," was scarcely an exaggeration; for what one inhabitant of Core City knew, was usually the property of all who wanted it; and this want, namely, to discuss personal affairs, particularly those which did not concern themselves, was well-nigh universal. It mattered not so much to Mrs. Eden that Peter's heart should be deflected, as that anybody should pity Mary. This was, no doubt, the unconscious reason that Mrs. Eden was particularly kind and agreeble to Goldie Pickens, and the reason, conscious or unconscious, that she began to entertain a decided disapproval, not to say suspicion, of her boarder.

In order to think well upon the situation, and to indulge a little selfishly in despondent thoughts, Mrs. Eden had sent Mary out for a wlk, maintaining that it would do her good. She said to herself, "I just want to be as unhappy and miserable as I please." Poor Mrs. Eden had little opportunity to be miserable, on account of work that must be done; nor was she allowed to enjoy this melancholy luxury very long on the afternoon in question, for Mary had not been gone long before she returned.

"I thought," said Mrs. Eden weakly, "that you were going to take a nice, long walk, Mary.”

Now Mary knew what Mrs. Eden had thought as well as did that lady. "Oh, no," she answered lightly. "I've brought you a treat. Let's hurry to the kitchen.'

She held up an oblong paper box which cried "ice cream" as distinctly as if it had vocal organs.

"Oh, what have you done!" cried Mrs. Eden, reproach and delight queerly blending in the exclamation. "We can't afford ice cream, darling. But it's the first we've had for so long-that-how much did it cost?"

"It cost fifteen cents, but I'm sure it's a quarter's worth. Oscar didn't want anything; but when I said I would never get any more if he didn't take the money, of course it was all right."

They reached the kitchen in tingling excitement. The afternoon was as warm a one as Arkansas ever prepares for her children in June, and the coolness of the box was delicious.

"You ought not, Mary!" said Mrs. Eden. "I'll get the saucers. This is living like rich people. You mustn't spoil me this way. But just one time won't hurt. We will have to call down Miss Goldie."

"She's not at home," said Mary comfortably. "Just before I went to town, I knocked and knocked on her door, but there was no answer."

Mrs. Eden poised some ice cream on her spoon, and said darkly, "I'm glad."

Mary said nothing to that. Her gaze was riveted upon the other's head. "Oh, mother!" she exclaimed, laying down her spoon.

"What is it?" cried Mrs. Eden, clapping her hand to her head. "Oh," she said with relief, "I was afraid I had left it on the dresser.”

"Mother!" repeated Mary, rising abruptly. "Hold your head this way, to the light. Oh, mother! it's a gray hair."

"No!" exclaimed Mrs. Eden, startled and awed, "not a gray hair, Mary!"

"Yes, it is," said her daughter, with a quiver in her voice. They were both standing, looking at each other with solemn eyes, as if they had just felt the breath of Time's cold wings sweeping above their heads. It took a very little thing, after all, to break down their reserve. A full heart overflows from one drop of a passing shower.

"Gray hairs are nothing," said Mrs. Eden bravely. Mary's arms were about her.

"I never thought that you might leave me," said Mary, wiping away her tears; "this is like a hint. It's a real blow. You are sure you didn't know it was there? You haven't been keeping it a secret?"

"I never dreamed of it, darling. But what does anything on this earth matter, except getting ready for the long journey?"

For she knew it was not the gray hair, nor even what the gray hair typified, that caused Mary's sobs. They were seated now, beside the window. Mary was in her mother's arms. Perhaps she did not know why she was crying, but the mother knew; and, for a time, made no effort to check the tears. Finally, she spoke in a softened tone: "The thought has come to me, when looking at some dear old lady, that by and by angel wings are going to be fashioned out of the beautiful feathery white locks."

Mary's tears ceased, but in her mother's embrace she I could not be ashamed of them. She kissed the other and rose. "Well," she said, "if this gray hair is a first feather, I'm going to rob your wings, mother, for it must come out."

"What is the use? Others will come. Do you think we can fool wise old Father Time?"

"I'm going to put him to guessing, anyway," said

the daughter, in a determined voice. "Bend over this way. There! Oh, you traitorous, stealthy, heartbreaking, first gray hair! But, mother," she said suddenly, "our ice cream is all melting. Hurry-hurry!

it's too bad."

"Never mind, honey," returned the other, coming back to the table; "I like the juice, and there is a little solid left." Just then came a knock at the front door.

"That's too bad!" exclaimed Mary, with something like indignation. "Our first ice cream, and company has come! But maybe they won't want to see you. Eat as fast as you can, while I am gone."

"I'll link in," Mrs. Eden declared heartily. However, she had taken but a spoonful or so, when Mary opened the door. "Mother, Cousin Winthrop wants to see you on business."

Mrs. Eden hastened into the front room and found the widower standing near the door.

"Cousin Polly, how do you do!" cried the rich orchardman warmly. "Now, I might as well say at the start, that I've come on private business, and I want no one else to hear what I have to say. Mary, Ethel is sitting in the carriage at the gate. Run along and chat with her.”

Mary obeyed the spirit rather than the letter of this command, for Ethel was not one with whom she could "chat" naturally. The cousins were as wide apart as two dispositions may well be; they looked at life from dissimilar points of view, and thus saw a different life with different aims. That which interested the one could not appeal forcibly to the other. Their intercourse, therefore, was usually upon that uniform, icy plain of social convention whereon, if one slipped not,