And they vow, whate’er the weather,
  Mid the brier, through the heather,
  They will walk life’s way together.

  Parting when the day grows late,
  If a moment at the gate
  One alone is left to wait,

  Yet each other they will greet
  Where life’s shadeless, dusty street
  And the heavenly pathway meet.

Margaret Mason.

BERRYTOWN.

CHAPTER XI.

Catharine sprang from her bed at daybreak that morning.  She could scarcely stop singing in the bath.  She had so much to do, so much to do!  The air blew briskly, the factory bells were clanging, the bees buzzed, the pretty white curtains were flapping.  It was a busy world, and she was busiest of all.  Had she not Hugh Guinness’s fate in hand?  She felt like a lad when he comes of age or makes his first venture in business.  Jane heard her singing noisily for a while, but when breakfast was ready she did not come down.

She was standing in front of her glass, staring at it as though the chubby, insignificant face there were the Sphinx and could answer the riddles of life.  McCall’s remark had suddenly recurred to her:  “What is Hugh Guinness to you?  You belong to another man.”  With a flash, Mr. Muller, natty and plump, had stood before her, curiously unfamiliar, mildly regarding her through his spectacles. Her husband! Why had she never understood that until this morning?  Her crossed hands lay on her wide blue-veined shoulders.  She almost tore the flesh from them.  “I belong to no man!” she cried.

She could not shake off the thought of him, as she usually did.  He stood beside her, do what she would—­the fat body and legs, the finical dress, the wearisome platitudes, a regiment of blue-coated, thick-lipped children behind him.

“If the best were done for them that could be hoped, they would but grow up miniature Mullers; and to think of that!” said Kitty.  She had given her life to him.  If she lived to be gray-headed, he alone owned her, mind and body.  “If I were dead in my coffin, he would put his mild, fat little hand on me, and look forward to owning me in heaven!  Oh-h!” This last was the one unendurable pang to Catharine.

Jane at the moment thrust her black face in:  “He’s come.  Hurry up, honey!  Mr. Muller, ob course.  Shell I do up your hair, chile?”

Kitty shook her head and smiled.  She would have had a kind smile for Jane and her like if she had been held by thumbscrews.  Stooping to button her gaiters, she caught sight of her face in the glass.  There were dark hollows under the eyes:  they had the look of an older, graver woman than she had ever been before.  Kitty hung up the green dress she had meant to wear, and took down a rose-colored one.  Mr. Muller was talking down stairs.  There was reality.  There was her work and her husband.  Why, she had the account-books of the school in her upper bureau-drawer at that moment, and in the lower ones her wedding things.  Dresses and cloaks all made; and such lovely linen!  As for Hugh Guinness, he was, after all, but a perplexing shadow, a riddle that turned from her the more she tried to make him real.  She went down.