It was the afternoon of the day before Christmas. Mrs. Alexander had been driving about all the morning,leaving presents at the houses of her friends.She lunched alone, and as she rose from the tableshe spoke to the butler: "Thomas, I am going downto the kitchen now to see Norah. In half an houryou are to bring the greens up from the cellarand put them in the library. Mr. Alexanderwill be home at three to hang them himself.Don't forget the stepladder, and plenty of tacksand string. You may bring the azaleas upstairs.Take the white one to Mr. Alexander's study.Put the two pink ones in this room,and the red one in the drawing-room."

A little before three o'clock Mrs. Alexanderwent into the library to see that everythingwas ready. She pulled the window shades high,for the weather was dark and stormy,and there was little light, even in the streets.A foot of snow had fallen during the morning,and the wide space over the river wasthick with flying flakes that fell andwreathed the masses of floating ice.Winifred was standing by the window whenshe heard the front door open. She hurriedto the hall as Alexander came stamping in,covered with snow. He kissed her joyfullyand brushed away the snow that fell on her hair.

"I wish I had asked you to meet me atthe office and walk home with me, Winifred.The Common is beautiful. The boys have sweptthe snow off the pond and are skating furiously.Did the cyclamens come?"

"An hour ago. What splendid ones!But aren't you frightfully extravagant?"

"Not for Christmas-time. I'll go upstairs andchange my coat. I shall be down in a moment. Tell Thomas to get everything ready."

When Alexander reappeared, he took his wife'sarm and went with her into the library."When did the azaleas get here?Thomas has got the white one in my room."

"I told him to put it there."

"But, I say, it's much the finest of the lot!"

"That's why I had it put there. There istoo much color in that room for a red one,you know."

Bartley began to sort the greens. "It looksvery splendid there, but I feel piggishto have it. However, we really spend moretime there than anywhere else in the house.Will you hand me the holly?"

He climbed up the stepladder, which creakedunder his weight, and began to twist thetough stems of the holly into the frame-work of the chandelier.

"I forgot to tell you that I had a letterfrom Wilson, this morning, explaining histelegram. He is coming on because an olduncle up in Vermont has conveniently diedand left Wilson a little money--somethinglike ten thousand. He's coming on to settle upthe estate. Won't it be jolly to have him?"

"And how fine that he's come into a littlemoney. I can see him posting down StateStreet to the steamship offices. He will geta good many trips out of that ten thousand.What can have detained him? I expected himhere for luncheon."

"Those trains from Albany are alwayslate. He'll be along sometime this afternoon.And now, don't you want to go upstairs andlie down for an hour? You've had a busy morningand I don't want you to be tired to-night."

After his wife went upstairs Alexanderworked energetically at the greens for a fewmoments. Then, as he was cutting off alength of string, he sighed suddenly and satdown, staring out of the window at the snow.The animation died out of his face, but in hiseyes there was a restless light, a look ofapprehension and suspense. He kept claspingand unclasping his big hands as if he weretrying to realize something. The clock tickedthrough the minutes of a half-hour and theafternoon outside began to thicken and darkenturbidly. Alexander, since he first sat down,had not changed his position. He leanedforward, his hands between his knees, scarcelybreathing, as if he were holding himselfaway from his surroundings, from the room,and from the very chair in which he sat, fromeverything except the wild eddies of snowabove the river on which his eyes were fixedwith feverish intentness, as if he were tryingto project himself thither. When at lastLucius Wilson was announced, Alexandersprang eagerly to his feet and hurriedto meet his old instructor.

"Hello, Wilson. What luck! Come intothe library. We are to have a lot of people todinner to-night, and Winifred's lying down.You will excuse her, won't you? And nowwhat about yourself? Sit down and tell meeverything."

"I think I'd rather move about, if you don't mind.I've been sitting in the train for a week,it seems to me." Wilson stood beforethe fire with his hands behind him andlooked about the room. "You HAVE been busy.Bartley, if I'd had my choice of all possibleplaces in which to spend Christmas, your housewould certainly be the place I'd have chosen.Happy people do a great deal for their friends.A house like this throws its warmth out.I felt it distinctly as I was coming throughthe Berkshires. I could scarcely believe thatI was to see Mrs. Bartley again so soon."

"Thank you, Wilson. She'll be as glad tosee you. Shall we have tea now? I'll ringfor Thomas to clear away this litter.Winifred says I always wreck the house whenI try to do anything. Do you know, I am quite tired.Looks as if I were not used to work, doesn't it?"Alexander laughed and dropped into a chair."You know, I'm sailing the day after New Year's."

"Again? Why, you've been over twicesince I was here in the spring, haven't you?"

"Oh, I was in London about ten days inthe summer. Went to escape the hot weathermore than anything else. I shan't be gonemore than a month this time. Winifred and Ihave been up in Canada for most of theautumn. That Moorlock Bridge is on my backall the time. I never had so much troublewith a job before." Alexander moved aboutrestlessly and fell to poking the fire.

"Haven't I seen in the papers that thereis some trouble about a tidewater bridge ofyours in New Jersey?"

"Oh, that doesn't amount to anything.It's held up by a steel strike. A bother,of course, but the sort of thing one is alwayshaving to put up with. But the MoorlockBridge is a continual anxiety. You see,the truth is, we are having to build pretty well tothe strain limit up there. They've crowdedme too much on the cost. It's all very wellif everything goes well, but these estimates havenever been used for anything of such lengthbefore. However, there's nothing to be done.They hold me to the scale I've used in shorterbridges. The last thing a bridge commissioncares about is the kind of bridge you build."

When Bartley had finished dressing fordinner he went into his study, where hefound his wife arranging flowers on hiswriting-table.

"These pink roses just came from Mrs. Hastings,"she said, smiling, "and I am sure she meant them for you."

Bartley looked about with an air of satisfactionat the greens and the wreaths in the windows."Have you a moment, Winifred? I have just nowbeen thinking that this is our twelfth Christmas.Can you realize it?" He went up to the tableand took her hands away from the flowers,drying them with his pocket handkerchief."They've been awfully happy ones, all of them,haven't they?" He took her in his arms and bent back,lifting her a little and giving her a long kiss."You are happy, aren't you Winifred? More thananything else in the world, I want you to be happy.Sometimes, of late, I've thought you lookedas if you were troubled."

"No; it's only when you are troubled andharassed that I feel worried, Bartley.I wish you always seemed as you do to-night.But you don't, always." She looked earnestlyand inquiringly into his eyes.

Alexander took her two hands from hisshoulders and swung them back and forth inhis own, laughing his big blond laugh.

"I'm growing older, my dear; that's whatyou feel. Now, may I show you something?I meant to save them until to-morrow, but Iwant you to wear them to-night." He took alittle leather box out of his pocket andopened it. On the white velvet lay two longpendants of curiously worked gold, set with pearls.Winifred looked from the box to Bartley and exclaimed:--

"Where did you ever find such gold work, Bartley?"

"It's old Flemish. Isn't it fine?"

"They are the most beautiful things, dear.But, you know, I never wear earrings."

"Yes, yes, I know. But I want you towear them. I have always wanted you to.So few women can. There must be a good ear,to begin with, and a nose"--he waved hishand--"above reproach. Most women looksilly in them. They go only with faces likeyours--very, very proud, and just a little hard."

Winifred laughed as she went over to themirror and fitted the delicate springs to thelobes of her ears. "Oh, Bartley, that oldfoolishness about my being hard. It reallyhurts my feelings. But I must go down now.People are beginning to come."

Bartley drew her arm about his neck and wentto the door with her. "Not hard to me, Winifred,"he whispered. "Never, never hard to me."

Left alone, he paced up and down hisstudy. He was at home again, among all thedear familiar things that spoke to him of somany happy years. His house to-night wouldbe full of charming people, who liked andadmired him. Yet all the time, underneath hispleasure and hopefulness and satisfaction, hewas conscious of the vibration of an unnaturalexcitement. Amid this light and warmth andfriendliness, he sometimes started and shuddered,as if some one had stepped on his grave.Something had broken loose in him of whichhe knew nothing except that it was sullenand powerful, and that it wrung and tortured him.Sometimes it came upon him softly, in enervating reveries.Sometimes it battered him like the cannon rolling in thehold of the vessel. Always, now, it brought with ita sense of quickened life, of stimulating danger.To-night it came upon him suddenly, as he waswalking the floor, after his wife left him. It seemed impossible; he could not believe it.He glanced entreatingly at the door, as if tocall her back. He heard voices in the hall below,and knew that he must go down. Going over to the window,he looked out at the lights across the river.How could this happen here, in his own house,among the things he loved? What was it thatreached in out of the darkness and thrilledhim? As he stood there he had a feeling thathe would never escape. He shut his eyes andpressed his forehead against the cold windowglass, breathing in the chill that came throughit. "That this," he groaned, "that this shouldhave happened to ME!"

On New Year's day a thaw set in, andduring the night torrents of rain fell.In the morning, the morning of Alexander'sdeparture for England, the river was streakedwith fog and the rain drove hard against thewindows of the breakfast-room. Alexander hadfinished his coffee and was pacing up anddown. His wife sat at the table, watchinghim. She was pale and unnaturally calm.When Thomas brought the letters, Bartleysank into his chair and ran them over rapidly.

"Here's a note from old Wilson. He's safeback at his grind, and says he had a bully time.`The memory of Mrs. Bartley will make mywhole winter fragrant.' Just like him.He will go on getting measureless satisfactionout of you by his study fire. What a man he isfor looking on at life!" Bartley sighed,pushed the letters back impatiently,and went over to the window. "This is anasty sort of day to sail. I've a notion tocall it off. Next week would be time enough."

"That would only mean starting twice.It wouldn't really help you out at all,"Mrs. Alexander spoke soothingly. "And you'dcome back late for all your engagements."

Bartley began jingling some loose coins inhis pocket. "I wish things would let me rest.I'm tired of work, tired of people, tired oftrailing about." He looked out at thestorm-beaten river.

Winifred came up behind him and put ahand on his shoulder. "That's what youalways say, poor Bartley! At bottom you reallylike all these things. Can't you remember that?"

He put his arm about her. "All the same,life runs smoothly enough with some people,and with me it's always a messy sort of patchwork.It's like the song; peace is where I am not.How can you face it all with so much fortitude?"

She looked at him with that clear gazewhich Wilson had so much admired, whichhe had felt implied such high confidence andfearless pride. "Oh, I faced that long ago,when you were on your first bridge, up at oldAllway. I knew then that your paths werenot to be paths of peace, but I decided thatI wanted to follow them."

Bartley and his wife stood silent for along time; the fire crackled in the grate,the rain beat insistently upon the windows,and the sleepy Angora looked up at them curiously.

Presently Thomas made a discreet sound at the door."Shall Edward bring down your trunks, sir?"

"Yes; they are ready. Tell him not to forgetthe big portfolio on the study table."

Thomas withdrew, closing the door softly. Bartley turned away from his wife, stillholding her hand. "It never gets any easier,Winifred."

They both started at the sound of thecarriage on the pavement outside. Alexandersat down and leaned his head on his hand.His wife bent over him. "Courage," she saidgayly. Bartley rose and rang the bell. Thomasbrought him his hat and stick and ulster. Atthe sight of these, the supercilious Angoramoved restlessly, quitted her red cushion bythe fire, and came up, waving her tail invexation at these ominous indications ofchange. Alexander stooped to stroke her, andthen plunged into his coat and drew on hisgloves. His wife held his stick, smiling. Bartley smiled too, and his eyes cleared."I'll work like the devil, Winifred, and be homeagain before you realize I've gone." He kissedher quickly several times, hurried out of thefront door into the rain, and waved to herfrom the carriage window as the driver wasstarting his melancholy, dripping blackhorses. Alexander sat with his hands clenchedon his knees. As the carriage turned up the hill,he lifted one hand and brought it down violently."This time"--he spoke aloud and through his set teeth--"this time I'm going to end it!"

On the afternoon of the third day out,Alexander was sitting well to the stern,on the windward side where the chairs werefew, his rugs over him and the collar of hisfur-lined coat turned up about his ears.The weather had so far been dark and raw.For two hours he had been watching the low,dirty sky and the beating of the heavy rainupon the iron-colored sea. There was a long,oily swell that made exercise laborious.The decks smelled of damp woolens, and the airwas so humid that drops of moisture keptgathering upon his hair and mustache.He seldom moved except to brush them away.The great open spaces made him passive andthe restlessness of the water quieted him.He intended during the voyage to decide upon acourse of action, but he held all this awayfrom him for the present and lay in a blessedgray oblivion. Deep down in him somewherehis resolution was weakening and strengthening,ebbing and flowing. The thing that perturbedhim went on as steadily as his pulse,but he was almost unconscious of it.He was submerged in the vast impersonalgrayness about him, and at intervals the sidelongroll of the boat measured off time like the tickingof a clock. He felt released from everythingthat troubled and perplexed him. It was as ifhe had tricked and outwitted torturing memories,had actually managed to get on board without them.He thought of nothing at all. If his mind nowand again picked a face out of the grayness,it was Lucius Wilson's, or the face of an old schoolmate,forgotten for years; or it was the slim outline of afavorite greyhound he used to hunt jack-rabbits withwhen he was a boy.

Toward six o'clock the wind rose andtugged at the tarpaulin and brought the swellhigher. After dinner Alexander came back tothe wet deck, piled his damp rugs over himagain, and sat smoking, losing himself in theobliterating blackness and drowsing in therush of the gale. Before he went below a fewbright stars were pricked off between heavilymoving masses of cloud.

The next morning was bright and mild,with a fresh breeze. Alexander felt the needof exercise even before he came out of hiscabin. When he went on deck the sky wasblue and blinding, with heavy whiffs of whitecloud, smoke-colored at the edges, movingrapidly across it. The water was roughish,a cold, clear indigo breaking into whitecaps.Bartley walked for two hours, and thenstretched himself in the sun until lunch-time.

In the afternoon he wrote a long letter toWinifred. Later, as he walked the deckthrough a splendid golden sunset, his spiritsrose continually. It was agreeable to come tohimself again after several days of numbnessand torpor. He stayed out until the last tingeof violet had faded from the water. There wasliterally a taste of life on his lips as he satdown to dinner and ordered a bottle of champagne. He was late in finishing his dinner,and drank rather more wine than he hadmeant to. When he went above, the wind hadrisen and the deck was almost deserted. As hestepped out of the door a gale lifted his heavyfur coat about his shoulders. He fought hisway up the deck with keen exhilaration.The moment he stepped, almost out of breath,behind the shelter of the stern, the wind wascut off, and he felt, like a rush of warm air,a sense of close and intimate companionship.He started back and tore his coat open as ifsomething warm were actually clinging tohim beneath it. He hurried up the deck andwent into the saloon parlor, full of womenwho had retreated thither from the sharp wind.He threw himself upon them. He talked delightfullyto the older ones and played accompaniments for theyounger ones until the last sleepy girl had followedher mother below. Then he went into the smoking-room. He played bridge until two o'clock in the morning,and managed to lose a considerable sum of moneywithout really noticing that he was doing so.

After the break of one fine day theweather was pretty consistently dull.When the low sky thinned a trifle, the pale whitespot of a sun did no more than throw a bluishlustre on the water, giving it the dark brightnessof newly cut lead. Through one after anotherof those gray days Alexander drowsed and mused,drinking in the grateful moisture. But the completepeace of the first part of the voyage was over.Sometimes he rose suddenly from his chair as if driven out,and paced the deck for hours. People noticedhis propensity for walking in rough weather,and watched him curiously as he did hisrounds. From his abstraction and the determinedset of his jaw, they fancied he must be thinkingabout his bridge. Every one had heard ofthe new cantilever bridge in Canada.

But Alexander was not thinking about his work. After the fourth night out, when his willsuddenly softened under his hands, he had beencontinually hammering away at himself.More and more often, when he first wakenedin the morning or when he stepped into a warmplace after being chilled on the deck,he felt a sudden painful delight at beingnearer another shore. Sometimes when hewas most despondent, when he thought himselfworn out with this struggle, in a flash hewas free of it and leaped into an overwhelmingconsciousness of himself. On the instanthe felt that marvelous return of theimpetuousness, the intense excitement,the increasing expectancy of youth.