Flower of the Dusk | Page 9

oppressed her beauty-loving soul; when
her fingers ached and the stitches blurred into mist before her eyes,
some little brown book, much worn, had often given her the key to the
House of Content.
"Shall you always have to sew?" asked Roger. "Is there no way out?"
[Sidenote: Glad of Work]
"Not unless some fairy prince comes prancing up on a white charger,"
laughed Barbara, "and takes us all away with him to his palace. Don't
pity me," she went on, her lips quivering a little, "for every day I'm glad
I can do it and keep father from knowing we are poor.
"Besides, I'm of use in the world, and I wouldn't want to live if I
couldn't work. Aunt Miriam works, too. She does all the housework,
takes care of me when I can't help myself, does the mending, many
things for father, and makes the quilts, preserves, candied orange peel,
and the other little things we sell. People are so kind to us. Last
Summer the women at the hotel bought everything we had and left
orders enough to keep me busy until long after Christmas."
"Don't call people kind because they buy what they want."

"Don't be so cynical. You wouldn't have them buy things they didn't
want, would you?"
"Sometimes they do."
"Where?"
"Well, at church fairs, for instance. They spend more than they can
afford for things they do not want, in order to please people whom they
do not like and help heathen who are much happier than they are."
"I'm glad I'm not running a church fair," laughed Barbara. "And who
told you that heathen are happier than we are? Are you a heathen?"
"I don't know. Most of us are, I suppose, in one way or another. But
how nice it would be if we could paint ourselves instead of wearing
clothes, and go under a tree when it rained, and pick cocoanuts or
bananas when we were hungry. It would save so much trouble and
expense."
"Paint is sticky," observed Barbara, "and the rain would come around
the tree when the wind was blowing from all ways at once, as it does
sometimes, and I do not like either cocoanuts or bananas. I'd rather sew.
What went wrong to-day?" she asked, with a whimsical smile.
"Everything?"
"Almost," admitted Roger. "How did you know?"
[Sidenote: Unfailing Barometer]
"Because you want to be a heathen instead of the foremost lawyer of
your time. Your ambition is an unfailing barometer."
He laughed lightly. This sort of banter was very pleasing to him after a
day with the law books and an hour or more with his mother. He had
known Barbara since they were children and their comradeship dated
back to the mud-pie days.
"I don't know but what you're right," he said. "Whether I go to

Congress or the Fiji Islands may depend, eventually, upon Judge
Bascom's liver."
"Don't let it depend upon him," cautioned Barbara. "Make your own
destiny. It was Napoleon, wasn't it, who prided himself upon making
his own circumstances? What would you do--or be--if you could have
your choice?"
[Sidenote: Aspirations]
"The best lawyer in the State," he answered, promptly. "I'd never
oppose the innocent nor defend the guilty. And I'd have money enough
to be comfortable and to make those I love comfortable."
"Would you marry?" she asked, thoughtfully.
"Why--I suppose so. It would seem queer, though."
"Roger," she said, abruptly, "you were born a year and more before I
was, and yet you're fully ten or fifteen years younger."
"Don't take me back too far, Barbara, for I hate milk. Please don't
deprive me of my solid food. What would you do, if you could
choose?"
"I'd write a book."
"What kind? Dictionary?"
"No, just a little book. The sort that people who love each other would
choose for a gift. Something that would be given to one who was going
on a long or difficult journey. The one book a woman would take with
her when she was tired and went away to rest. A book with laughter
and tears in it and so much fine courage that it would be given to those
who are in deep trouble. I'd soften the hard hearts, rest the weary ones,
and give the despairing ones new strength to go on. Just a little book,
but so brave and true and sweet and tender that it would bring the sun
to every shady place."

"Would you marry?"
[Sidenote: The Right Man]
"Of course, if the right man came. Otherwise not."
"I wonder," mused Roger, "how a person could know the right one?"
"Foolish child," she answered, "that's it--the knowing. When you don't
know, it isn't it."
"My dear Miss North," remarked Roger, "the heads of your argument
are somewhat involved, but