there comes a time

after white months of ice—

slow months of ice—long months of ice—

there comes a time when the still floods below

rise, lift, and overflow—

fast, far they go.

miss orella sat in her low armless rocker, lifting perplexed, patient eyes to look up at dr. bellair.

dr. bellair stood squarely before her, stood easily, on broad-soled, low-heeled shoes, and looked down at miss orella; her eyes were earnest, compelling, full of hope and cheer.

"you are as pretty as a girl, orella," she observed irrelevantly.

miss orella blushed. she was not used to compliments, even from a woman, and did not know how to take them.

"how you talk!" she murmured shyly.

"i mean to talk," continued the doctor, "until you listen to reason."

reason in this case, to dr. bellair's mind, lay in her advice to miss elder to come west with her—to live.

"i don't see how i can. it's—it's such a complete change."

miss orella spoke as if change were equivalent to sin, or at least to danger.

"do you good. as a physician, i can prescribe nothing better. you need a complete change if anybody ever did."

"why, jane! i am quite well."

"i didn't say you were sick. but you are in an advanced stage of arthritis deformans of the soul. the whole town's got it!"

the doctor tramped up and down the little room, freeing her mind.

"i never saw such bed-ridden intellects in my life! i suppose it was so when i was a child—and i was too young to notice it. but surely it's worse now. the world goes faster and faster every day, the people who keep still get farther behind! i'm fond of you, rella. you've got an intellect, and a conscience, and a will—a will like iron. but62 you spend most of your strength in keeping yourself down. now, do wake up and use it to break loose! you don't have to stay here. come out to colorado with me—and grow."

miss elder moved uneasily in her chair. she laid her small embroidery hoop on the table, and straightened out the loose threads of silk, the doctor watching her impatiently.

"i'm too old," she said at length.

jane bellair laughed aloud, shortly.

"old!" she cried. "you're five years younger than i am. you're only thirty-six! old! why, child, your life's before you—to make."

"you don't realize, jane. you struck out for yourself so young—and you've grown up out there—it seems to be so different—there."

"it is. people aren't afraid to move. what have you got here you so hate to leave, rella?"

"why, it's—home."

"yes. it's home—now. are you happy in it?"

"i'm—contented."

"don't you deceive yourself, rella. you are not contented—not by a long chalk. you are doing your duty as you see it; and you've kept yourself down so long you've almost lost the power of motion. i'm trying to galvanize you awake—and i mean to do it."

"you might as well sit down while you're doing it, anyway," miss elder suggested meekly.

dr. bellair sat down, selecting a formidable fiddle-backed chair, the unflinching determination of its widely-placed feet being repeated by her own square toes. she placed herself in front of her friend and leaned forward, elbows on knees, her strong, intelligent hands clasped loosely.

"what have you got to look forward to, rella?"

"i want to see susie happily married—"

"i said you—not susie."

"oh—me? why, i hope some day morton will come back——"

"i said you—not morton."

"why i—you know i have friends, jane64 —and neighbors. and some day, perhaps—i mean to go abroad."

"are you scolding aunt rella again, dr. bellair. i won't stand it." pretty susie stood in the door smiling.

"come and help me then," the doctor said, "and it won't sound so much like scolding."

"i want mort's letter—to show to viva," the girl answered, and slipped out with it.

she sat with vivian on the stiff little sofa in the back room; the arms of the two girls were around one another, and they read the letter together. more than six months had passed since his last one.

it was not much of a letter. vivian took it in her own hands and went through it again, carefully. the "remember me to viva—unless she's married," at the end did not seem at all satisfying. still it might mean more than appeared—far more. men were reticent and proud, she had read. it was perfectly possible that he might be concealing deep emotion under the open friendliness. he was in no condition to speak freely, to come back and claim her. he did not wish her to feel bound to him. she had65 discussed it with mrs. st. cloud, shrinkingly, tenderly, led on by tactful, delicate, questions, by the longing of her longing heart for expression and sympathy.

"a man who cannot marry must speak of marriage—it is not honorable," her friend had told her.

"couldn't he—write to me—as a friend?"

and the low-voiced lady had explained with a little sigh that men thought little of friendship with women. "i have tried, all my life, to be a true and helpful friend to men, to such men as seemed worthy, and they so often—misunderstood."

the girl, sympathetic and admiring, thought hotly of how other people misunderstood this noble, lovely soul; how they even hinted that she "tried to attract men," a deadly charge in bainville.

"no," mrs. st. cloud had told her, "he might love you better than all the world—yet not write to you—till he was ready to say 'come.' and, of course, he wouldn't say anything in his letters to his aunt."

so vivian sat there, silent, weaving frail dreams out of "remember me to viva—unless she's married." that last clause might mean much.

dr. bellair's voice sounded clear and insistent in the next room.

"she's trying to persuade aunt rella to go west!" said susie. "wouldn't it be funny if she did!"

in susie's eyes her aunt's age was as the age of mountains, and also her fixity. since she could remember, aunt rella, always palely pretty and neat, like the delicate, faintly-colored spring flowers of new england, had presided over the small white house, the small green garden and the large black and white school-room. in her vacation she sewed, keeping that quiet wardrobe of hers in exquisite order—and also making susie's pretty dresses. to think of aunt orella actually "breaking up housekeeping," giving up her school, leaving bainville, was like a vision of trees walking.

to dr. jane bellair, forty-one, vigorous, successful, full of new plans and purposes, miss elder's life appeared as an arrested girlhood, stagnating unnecessarily in this67 quiet town, while all the world was open to her.

"i couldn't think of leaving susie!" protested miss orella.

"bring her along," said the doctor. "best thing in the world for her!"

she rose and came to the door. the two girls make a pretty picture. vivian's oval face, with its smooth madonna curves under the encircling wreath of soft, dark plaits, and the long grace of her figure, delicately built, yet strong, beside the pink, plump little susie, roguish and pretty, with the look that made everyone want to take care of her.

"come in here, girls," said the doctor. "i want you to help me. you're young enough to be movable, i hope."

they cheerfully joined the controversy, but miss orella found small support in them.

"why don't you do it, auntie!" susie thought it an excellent joke. "i suppose you could teach school in denver as well as here. and you could vote! oh, auntie—to think of your voting!"

miss elder, too modestly feminine, too68 inherently conservative even to be an outspoken "anti," fairly blushed at the idea.

"she's hesitating on your account," dr. bellair explained to the girl. "wants to see you safely married! i tell her you'll have a thousandfold better opportunities in colorado than you ever will here."

vivian was grieved. she had heard enough of this getting married, and had expected dr. bellair to hold a different position.

"surely, that's not the only thing to do," she protested.

"no, but it's a very important thing to do—and to do right. it's a woman's duty."

vivian groaned in spirit. that again!

the doctor watched her understandingly.

"if women only did their duty in that line there wouldn't be so much unhappiness in the world," she said. "all you new england girls sit here and cut one another's throats. you can't possible marry, your boys go west, you overcrowd the labor market, lower wages, steadily drive the weakest sisters down till they—drop."

they heard the back door latch lift and69 close again, a quick, decided step—and mrs. pettigrew joined them.

miss elder greeted her cordially, and the old lady seated herself in the halo of the big lamp, as one well accustomed to the chair.

"go right on," she said—and knitted briskly.

"do take my side, mrs. pettigrew," miss orella implored her. "jane bellair is trying to pull me up by the roots and transplant me to colorado."

"and she says i shall have a better chance to marry out there—and ought to do it!" said susie, very solemnly. "and vivian objects to being shown the path of duty."

vivian smiled. her quiet, rather sad face lit with sudden sparkling beauty when she smiled.

"grandma knows i hate that—point of view," she said. "i think men and women ought to be friends, and not always be thinking about—that."

"i have some real good friends—boys, i mean," susie agreed, looking so serious in her platonic boast that even vivian was a little amused, and dr. bellair laughed outright.

"you won't have a 'friend' in that sense till you're fifty, miss susan—if you ever do. there can be, there are, real friendships between men and women, but most of that talk is—talk, sometimes worse.

"i knew a woman once, ever so long ago," the doctor continued musingly, clasping her hands behind her head, "a long way from here—in a college town—who talked about 'friends.' she was married. she was a 'good' woman—perfectly 'good' woman. her husband was not a very good man, i've heard, and strangely impatient of her virtues. she had a string of boys—college boys—always at her heels. quite too young and too charming she was for this friendship game. she said that such a friendship was 'an ennobling influence' for the boys. she called them her 'acolytes.' lots of them were fairly mad about her—one young chap was so desperate over it that he shot himself."

there was a pained silence.

"i don't see what this has to do with going to colorado," said mrs. pettigrew, looking from one to the other with a keen, observing eye. "what's your plan, dr. bellair?"

"why, i'm trying to persuade my old friend here to leave this place, change her occupation, come out to colorado with me, and grow up. she's a case of arrested development."

"she wants me to keep boarders!" miss elder plaintively protested to mrs. pettigrew.

that lady was not impressed.

"it's quite a different matter out there, mrs. pettigrew," the doctor explained. "'keeping boarders' in this country goes to the tune of 'come ye disconsolate!' it's a doubtful refuge for women who are widows or would be better off if they were. where i live it's a sure thing if well managed—it's a good business."

mrs. pettigrew wore an unconvinced aspect.

"what do you call 'a good business?'" she asked.

"the house i have in mind cleared a thousand a year when it was in right hands. that's not bad, over and above one's board and lodging. that house is in the market now. i've just had a letter from a friend about it. orella could go out with me, and step right into mrs. annerly's shoes—she's just giving up."

"what'd she give up for?" mrs. pettigrew inquired suspiciously.

"oh—she got married; they all do. there are three men to one woman in that town, you see."

"i didn't know there was such a place in the world—unless it was a man-of-war," remarked susie, looking much interested.

dr. bellair went on more quietly.

"it's not even a risk, mrs. pettigrew. rella has a cousin who would gladly run this house for her. she's admitted that much. so there's no loss here, and she's got her home to come back to. i can write to dick hale to nail the proposition at once. she can go when i go, in about a fortnight, and i'll guarantee the first year definitely."

"i wouldn't think of letting you do that, jane! and if it's as good as you say, there's no need. but a fortnight! to leave home—in a fortnight!"

"what are the difficulties?" the old lady inquired. "there are always some difficulties."

"you are right, there," agreed the doctor. "the difficulties in this place are servants. but just now there's a special chance in that line. dick says the best cook in town is going begging. i'll read you his letter."

she produced it, promptly, from the breast pocket of her neat coat. dr. bellair wore rather short, tailored skirts of first-class material; natty, starched blouses—silk ones for "dress," and perfectly fitting light coats. their color and texture might vary with the season, but their pockets, never.

"'my dear jane' (this is my best friend out there—a doctor, too. we were in the same class, both college and medical school. we fight—he's a misogynist of the worst type—but we're good friends all the same.) 'why don't you come back? my boys are lonesome without you, and i am overworked—you left so many mishandled invalids for me to struggle with. your boarding house is going to the dogs. mrs. annerly got worse and worse, failed completely and has cleared out, with a species of husband, i believe. the owner has put in a sort of caretaker, and the roomers get board outside—it's better than what they were having. moreover, the best cook in town is hunting a job. wire me and i'll nail her. you know the place pays well. now, why don't you give up your unnatural attempt to be a doctor and assume woman's proper sphere? come back and keep house!'

"he's a great tease, but he tells the truth. the house is there, crying to be kept. the boarders are there—unfed. now, orella elder, why don't you wake up and seize the opportunity?"

miss orella was thinking.

"where's that last letter of morton's?"

susie looked for it. vivian handed it to her, and miss elder read it once more.

"there's plenty of homeless boys out there besides yours, orella," the doctor assured her. "come on—and bring both these girls with you. it's a chance for any girl, miss lane."

but her friend did not hear her. she found what she was looking for in the letter and read it aloud. "i'm on the road again now, likely to be doing colorado most of the year if things go right. it's a fine country."

susie hopped up with a little cry.

"just the thing, aunt rella! let's go out and surprise mort. he thinks we are just built into the ground here. won't it be fun, viva?"

vivian had risen from her seat and stood at the window, gazing out with unseeing eyes at the shadowy little front yard. morton might be there. she might see him. but—was it womanly to go there—for that? there were other reasons, surely. she had longed for freedom, for a chance to grow, to do something in life—something great and beautiful! perhaps this was the opening of the gate, the opportunity of a lifetime.

"you folks are so strong on duty," the doctor was saying, "why can't you see a real duty in this? i tell you, the place is full of men that need mothering, and sistering—good honest sweethearting and marrying,76 too. come on, rella. do bigger work than you've ever done yet—and, as i said, bring both these nice girls with you. what do you say, miss lane?"

vivian turned to her, her fine face flushed with hope, yet with a small greek fret on the broad forehead.

"i'd like to, very much, dr. bellair—on some accounts. but——" she could not quite voice her dim objections, her obscure withdrawals; and so fell back on the excuse of childhood—"i'm sure mother wouldn't let me."

dr. bellair smiled broadly.

"aren't you over twenty-one?" she asked.

"i'm twenty-five," the girl replied, with proud acceptance of a life long done—as one who owned to ninety-seven.

"and self-supporting?" pursued the doctor.

vivian flushed.

"no—not yet," she answered; "but i mean to be."

"exactly! now's your chance. break away now, my dear, and come west. you can get work—start a kindergarten, or77 something. i know you love children."

the girl's heart rose within her in a great throb of hope.

"oh—if i could!" she exclaimed, and even as she said it, rose half-conscious memories of the low, sweet tones of mrs. st. cloud. "it is a woman's place to wait—and to endure."

she heard a step on the walk outside—looked out.

"why, here is mrs. st. cloud!" she cried.

"guess i'll clear out," said the doctor, as susie ran to the door. she was shy, socially.

"nonsense, jane," said her hostess, whispering. "mrs. st. cloud is no stranger. she's mrs. williams' sister—been here for years."

she came in at the word, her head and shoulders wreathed in a pearl gray shining veil, her soft long robe held up.

"i saw your light, miss elder, and thought i'd stop in for a moment. good evening, mrs. pettigrew—and miss susie. ah! vivian!"

"this is my friend, dr. bellair—mrs. st. cloud," miss elder was saying. but dr.bellair bowed a little stiffly, not coming forward.

"i've met mrs. st. cloud before, i think—when she was 'mrs. james.'"

the lady's face grew sad.

"ah, you knew my first husband! i lost him—many years ago—typhoid fever."

"i think i heard," said the doctor. and then, feeling that some expression of sympathy was called for, she added, "too bad."

not all miss elder's gentle hospitality, mrs. pettigrew's bright-eyed interest, susie's efforts at polite attention, and vivian's visible sympathy could compensate mrs. st. cloud for one inimical presence.

"you must have been a mere girl in those days," she said sweetly. "what a lovely little town it was—under the big trees."

"it certainly was," the doctor answered dryly.

"there is such a fine atmosphere in a college town, i think," pursued the lady. "especially in a co-educational town—don't you think so?"

vivian was a little surprised. she had had an idea that her admired friend did not approve of co-education. she must have been mistaken.

"such a world of old memories as you call up, dr. bellair," their visitor pursued. "those quiet, fruitful days! you remember dr. black's lectures? of course you do, better than i. what a fine man he was! and the beautiful music club we had one winter—and my little private dancing class—do you remember that? such nice boys, miss elder! i used to call them my acolytes."

susie gave a little gulp, and coughed to cover it.

"i guess you'll have to excuse me, ladies," said dr. bellair. "good-night." and she walked upstairs.

vivian's face flushed and paled and flushed again. a cold pain was trying to enter her heart, and she was trying to keep it out. her grandmother glanced sharply from one face to the other.

"glad to've met you, mrs. st. cloud," she said, bobbing up with decision. "good-night, rella—and susie. come on child. it's a wonder your mother hasn't sent after us."

for once vivian was glad to go.

"that's a good scheme of jane bellair's, don't you think so?" asked the old lady as they shut the gate behind them.

"i—why yes—i don't see why not."

vivian was still dizzy with the blow to her heart's idol. all the soft, still dream-world she had so labored to keep pure and beautiful seemed to shake and waver swimmingly. she could not return to it. the flat white face of her home loomed before her, square, hard, hideously unsympathetic—

"grandma," said she, stopping that lady suddenly and laying a pleading hand on her arm, "grandma, i believe i'll go."

mrs. pettigrew nodded decisively.

"i thought you would," she said.

"do you blame me, grandma?"

"not a mite, child. not a mite. but i'd sleep on it, if i were you."

and vivian slept on it—so far as she slept at all.