"who in the world would have thought this morning it was going to rain like this? but that's weather; you never can tell what it's going to do. just like women. good gracious! did you see that flash of lightning?"

mrs. tate, sitting on mrs. moon's front porch, clapped her hands to her ears and shut her eyes tight, then got up quickly. "you all may stay out here if you want to, but i'm going in. i never did think it was right to tempt providence, and if there was a feather bed in the house i'd get on it. can't the windows be lowered, beth, and somebody start the pianola and turn on the lights? a thunderstorm like this gives me such a sinking feeling in my stomach i feel like i'm sitting on a trap-door with a broken catch. my love! there goes another one!"

mrs. moon laughed and got up. "i guess we had better go in, mrs. burnham, the porch is getting so wet. i hope miss georganna brickhouse and mrs. steele got home before the rain. i saw them coming from mrs. deford's just now." she pulled the chairs quickly forward as a sudden heavy deluge beat in almost to the door, and called to the maid to lower the windows; then, inside the sitting-room, took up her sewing, mrs. burnham taking up hers also.

but sewing was not for mrs. tate. as another peal of thunder drowned the downpour of rain she ran to the sofa and piled around her the cushions upon it. putting one under her feet, another on her head, and clasping one close to her breast with her crossed arms, she closed her eyes tight and sat in huddled terror waiting for the storm to pass.

neither lightning nor thunder could silence her tongue, however, and, though at some distance from the window near which mrs. moon and mrs. burnham were sitting, she talked on with slight regard to their attention, from time to time opening her eyes, only to shut them quickly again it a flash of lightning caused fresh fright.

"i might have known it was going to storm like this," she said after a while, "for last night was the hottest night i ever felt in my life. when i went to bed i didn't think i was going to sleep a wink, and i wouldn't if i'd stayed awake and thought about it. the mosquitoes were perfectly awful. biggest things i ever saw. i thought once there were bats in the room. sakes alive! that reminds me i haven't ordered a thing for dinner! i didn't intend to stay here a minute; just stopped by on my way to mr. blick's, and here it is after one o'clock! i get so tired of those everlasting three meals a day that i almost wish there were no such things as stomachs. i would wish it if mr. tate wasn't in the feed business. half one's time is spent in getting something to put in them and the other half in suffering from what we put. do you all ever have dyspepsia? i do —awful. and not a doctor in town knows what to do for it. i take more medicine—"

"maybe that is what gives it to you." mrs. burnham looked at mrs. moon and smiled. when she first came to yorkburg she had wondered why mrs. tate was called "buzzie," but she had long since found out, also the fitness of the appellation. "i guess i am queer about medicine," she went on, bending over to see if there were any breaks in the clouds. "i rarely take it. there is nothing so apt to keep you sick."

"that's so. and after a while we'll all have to be christian scientists or new thoughters or some other thing that don't call in doctors. i wish i was one this minute. i'd rather think something than swallow something, and nobody but the rich can afford to be sick these days. if you say you've got a plain everyday sort of pain the doctor puts a name on it and yanks you to a hospital and cuts it out before he's sure what the thing really is. if you live you're lucky. if you don't—well, you're dead. that's all. and if you're tired out and fidgety and feel like crying as much as you want to, they say you're a nervous prostrationer and tie you to a trained nurse at twenty-five dollars a week, and don't let you see friend or relative until you're better or worse. i tell you mr. tate would go crazy if he had to hand out twenty-five dollars a week to have a girl in white wait on me. and i wouldn't blame him. if i were a young man i'd think a long time before i'd get married these days. a man wouldn't buy a horse unless he knew it was healthy, but he'd marry a girl without knowing. but i never saw a man who wouldn't rather butt his own head his own way then be told he didn't have to, and nobody gets thanked for telling. mercy! i'm hot; nearly melting. is it still raining, beth?"

mrs. moon got up and raised the window. "not very much, and the clouds seem to be scattering. i should think you would be roasting, way over in that corner with all those cushions around you. why don't you come by the window? the air feels so fresh and good."

"no, sir!" mrs. tate opened her eyes, but closed them quickly again. "there goes another flash of lightning! the thunder is getting better, but i'm not going to sit by an open window as long as there's any of it left. but i'm hot, all right. seems to me yorkburg is a great deal hotter in summer now than it used to be. that's only natural, i suppose, as everything in yorkburg has changed. if old general wright and mr. brockenborough and major alden and judge gault and some others of their day could come back they wouldn't know it. they were the lordliest, high-handedest bunch of old aristocrats that ever lived, and they ruled this town like they owned it. specially major alden. he didn't have a bit of business sense, father tate used to say, but he'd had money all his life and he would spend it; and when there wasn't any to spend he spent on just the same. major alden didn't really believe the almighty made common people. he thought they came up like weeds and underbrush and, though you couldn't cut them down exactly, you must keep them down somehow. he really believed it. some people think so now."

"certainly his granddaughter doesn't." mrs. burnham put down her work and took up a palm-leaf fan and began to use it, running her finger around the neck of her collar to loosen it. "i don't think anybody in yorkburg begins to understand what mary cary is doing here, or what she means to certain people—"

"i don't suppose we do"—mrs. moon started to say something, but mrs. tate was ahead of her—"and no one in the world would ever have imagined mary would do things like that. but that's mary. from childhood no one ever knew what she'd be doing next. she certainly is looking pretty, but she isn't the beauty her mother was. i'm like miss gibbie in one thing. i believe in a sure-enough hell. they say real smart people don't any more except preachers who have to and women who want to. miss gibbie says she wouldn't believe in it if it hadn't been for the war, but i believe in it because some things have to be burned out, and major alden needed to have his pride purified. you knew he used to be a beau of miss gibbie's, didn't you?"

mrs. burnham shook her head. "no, i know little of yorkburg's personal history."

"well, he was. she never was a raging beauty, but she had more men in love with her than any girl she ever knew, mother used to say, and more sense than all the rest put together. that's what i think was so funny. men don't care for sense in a woman. if she can sign coal tickets and market tickets, and look after them, and be good-looking and nice it's all they care for. i never knew how to make out a check until my own daughter showed me. what's the use? never had a dollar in bank in my life. mr. tate's the kind of man who thinks a woman ought to come to her husband for everything, and as he never gives me money unless i ask for it, and i don't ask until i need it to spend right away, it has no chance to get in a bank. i don't mean i have to worry mr. tate. he gives me all he can, and, besides, i always did think it was a mistake in a woman to know too much about business things. men don't like it. i've always made it a rule never to do anything mr. tate could do for me. i've often noticed one or the other is going to be helpless, and i'd rather be waited on than wait."

she settled herself more comfortably on the sofa and again opened her eyes cautiously. "of course i'm old-fashioned. young people have very different ideas from their parents. girls plank themselves right straight alongside of men and say they are just as smart as men are. of course they are. women have always known it, but they used to have too much sense to tell it. nowadays they tell everything. the easiest thing on earth to fool is a man. he just naturally loves helplessness, and when aylette married i told her for mercy's sake not to be one of these new-fashioned kind of wives, but be a clinger. she doesn't like clingers, and sometimes i'm afraid she's too smart to be real happy. she takes after her grandfather tate. i certainly do thank the lord he didn't see fit to make me clever. i've often heard my mother say a smart woman had a hard time in life."

"i wonder why miss gibbie did not marry." mrs. burnham was looking at mrs. moon. "if she had so many beaux it is strange she did not marry."

"now who on earth could think of miss gibbie gault being married!" the cushion dropped from the top of mrs. tate's head and she stooped to pick it up. "her independent tongue was laughed at and her witty speeches repeated, but what home could have stood her? she knew better than to get married. if she ever loved anybody, nobody ever knew it, mother used to say, but i always have believed she did. she certainly is one queer person. mrs. porter asked her last week to give something to the choir fund and she said she'd do nothing of the kind, and she thought the people ought to be paid for having to listen to squeaks like we had instead of paying them to squeak, and she wouldn't give a cent. she holds on to what she's got like paper to the wall, mrs. porter says."

mrs. moon got up and pressed the button by the door, and when the maid appeared spoke to her.

"mrs. tate and mrs. burnham will stay to dinner, harriet. see that there are places at the table for them."

"indeed i can't stay to dinner." mrs. tate jumped up and came toward the window. "i believe it's stopped raining, and if the thunder is over i'll have to run on home. when i left there everything looked like scrambled eggs, and nobody knows where i am, and i wouldn't telephone just after a storm for forty dollars. there's the sun. i'm going. good-bye." and picking up her skirts with both hands she ran down the steps and out into the street and across it to her house, half-way down the square.

coming back from the door to which they had followed her, mrs. moon and mrs. burnham laughed good-naturedly. "how do you suppose she manages it?" both asked, and then laughed again at the oneness of thought.

"i've often wondered why she didn't lose breath," said mrs. burnham, taking her seat this time in the hall for the few minutes longer she could stay. "but i wouldn't dare try to see how she does it. she's worse than mrs. mcdougal. did you hear of the letter she wrote miss gibbie? mrs. mcdougal, i mean. i'm so glad she's coming home before we go away. to hear her tell of her trip will be better than the minstrels. when are you going away, mrs. moon?"

the latter shook her head. "i don't know. i'm trying to make mr. moon go with me, but i'm afraid there's no use in even hoping it. richard says it's for the family he is working as he does, and he is honest in thinking it, but if i and the children were to die to-morrow he'd begin the day after the funeral and keep at it just as persistently as ever."

mrs. burnham looked down at her work as if examining closely the stitches she had just put in. mr. moon was the richest man in yorkburg, but not for years had he and his wife gone off together for a holiday. presently she looked up. "men are queer, aren't they? i suppose all wives wish sometimes they could mix up, as one does dough, a whole bunch of husbands and cut them out in new patterns with some of each other's qualities in each. there's mr. corbin. he doesn't work enough. mr. moon works too much. i saw mr. corbin on this front porch the other day reading plato's /republic/ as though it were the first reading. it was the third he told me. mr. moon—"

"never heard of plato's /republic/, or if he did has forgotten it." mrs. moon laughed, but as pushing back a sigh. "his republic is yorkburg and the mills. he can never go away. often i wonder if it is worth it, the money he is making. he gives me everything on earth but what i want most."

mrs. burnham again bent over her work. "a woman has to pay full price for a successful husband," she said, presently. "perhaps mr. corbin's philosophy isn't all wrong. he has no wealth, no fame, no great position, but he has gotten something out of life many men miss."

"and his wife has gotten much some other women miss. men who make money never seem to have time to enjoy it until too late. in business it's the game men love. they build big houses, fill them with fine furniture and servants, give their wives beautiful clothes and carriages—and then find they have no home. i wish i didn't feel as i do about money, but i've come to see it's the most separating thing on earth."

she stopped and laughed with something of embarrassment. "this is a queer subject you and i have drifted into. we both have husbands of whom we should be proud, but—" her lips quivered. "men say women don't understand. perhaps they don't; but when mr. moon was not so busy and we could take the buggy, shabby though it was, and go for a long afternoon in the country and talk over our plans, and whether we could afford this or whether that, it was a far happier ride than i take now in the automobile. he gave me one this spring, but he has no time to go with me." her eyes filled. "there are some things women understand too well."

for a moment there was silence, then she drew her chair closer to the open door. "but a woman shouldn't be silly, should she? i often think of what my old mammy told me the day i was married. 'don't never forget, honey, that what you's marryin' is a man,' she said, 'and don't be expectin' of all the heavenly virtues in him. they ain't thar."

mrs. burnham laughed. "they are not. in a woman 'they ain't thar,' either. miss matoaca brockenborough says from observation there is something to be said on both sides." she looked up. "you knew miss matoaca was going away with miss gibbie gault and mary cary, didn't you? she hasn't been out of yorkburg for years and is as excited about it as if she were sixteen. she's going as mary's guest, you know."

"yes, i know." mrs. moon's voice was suddenly troubled. "it is all right, of course, but i can't understand why mary keeps things so to herself. it isn't like her. she isn't rich. her uncle is, but i'm sure it isn't his money she's spending. last week miss ginnie grant and her old mother were sent off for a month's stay in the mountains. i don't understand—"

"i don't either." mrs. burnham got up and smiled in the perplexed face before her. "but when the time comes we will all understand, and until then i'm willing to wait. mary is acting for some one else, i suppose. several people have been suggested, some men, some women. somebody said they'd heard a very rich patient of her uncle's out in michigan was sending her the money to use as she saw best, and others say john maxwell got some one to buy the bonds for him, but—"

"i don't believe it's john. of course i don't know." mrs. moon got up. "i wish you would stay to dinner. we have peach cream to-day. it's very nice. you'd better stay."

"i wish i could. peach cream is terribly tempting, but if i'm not at the table mr. burnham is as injured as if i'd done him a grievous wrong. he's the only child i have, you know, and i guess he's rather—"

mrs. moon smiled in the laughing face. "i guess he is. good-bye."