hers. Before that, he would meet Ann Marie in the woods and they would "take our usual ride" in the open country. The "usual ride" consisted of a bridle path some half mile distant from Willoughby Road, away from low-hanging limbs and up and down a moderate hill. The time of meeting was to be half-past ten. Bernadette only knew that when Courtney was at home her daughter occasionally met him for an excursion on horseback. That had begun when the girl had been only eight and Courtney nine, and had continued. Courtney had many influential friends of "family" in Green Hills, and these friends were male and so Bernadette, much as she hated her brother and resented him as part of the "seduction" Elizabeth had practiced on "my poor weak father," Courtney had his social uses. He introduced Ann Marie to his friends, and so the excessively shy girl had a number of suitors who were attracted by her gentle demeanor, her sudden sweet smile which had a certain fascination, her beautiful tawny eyes with their changing lights, and even the awkward youthfulness of her thin body which refused curves and so gave her an air of early nubility. Bernadette might deride her for her "boyish" appearance and bewail the fact that Ann Marie "had no style at all," but young men found this very appearance beguiling as it hinted of perpetual youth and delicate virginity. Ann Marie's light brown hair, fine and shining, refused to curl no matter how hot the irons were which were applied to it, and the curlers. It had a way of falling from pins and rolling down over her shoulders like an amber veil, which the young men also found endearing. She had had many proposals, but had refused them all, and when Bernadette berated her she would answer nothing. She knew her mother disliked her, and she had no real fondness for Bernadette, but she respected her and was terrified of her. Bernadette had slapped her but a few times in her life, and when she was much younger, but had Bernadette used any other weapon in cruelty to her daughter except the cruelty of her tongue, she could not have inspired in the girl any greater fear of her. "But why?" asked Courtney several times. "What can your mother really do to you?" "I don't know," Ann Marie would answer in misery, twisting her thin hands together. "It is as if there is something hidden in Mama, which could explode and destroy if she were pushed far enough, and I am afraid of it." Courtney thought this ridiculous. He knew all about Bernadette and disliked her immensely, but after all she was a woman and a mother and he could not imagine her becoming really violent in a disgusting way, though once or twice he had seen a look on her face which made him understand, in a small measure, why Ann Marie could fear her. It was an elated, almost gleeful, expression, full of hate and malice, and there would be a certain glitter in her eyes which Courtney had felt was not entirely sane. He had the aversion and mysterious apprehension of the utterly sane for those who could lose control and were not capable, at those times, of any control at all. It was like an elemental force, beyond human reason or harnessing. Understanding, therefore, both Bernadette and the retiring and extremely shy and vulnerable Ann Marie, Courtney had written the girl that she must wait for him to go with her to Bernadette and announce their intention of marrying. Once he had believed that he should not be present, but when he had urged Ann Marie to confront her mother the girl had exhibited so much real terror, such inexplicable terror-to him- that he could only soothe her and advise her to "wait." Ann Marie had awakened early. The depot was more than three miles away but with the keenness of love she was certain that she could hear the howling of the train as it brought Courtney to Winfield. She sat up in bed, and hugged her body with her thin young arms and smiled with joy and anticipation. Then she threw aside the silken sheets and went to the window which faced the house where Courtney lived, and she sat beside it, watching and waiting, sometimes shivering with delight and a real ecstasy of love, sometimes feeling fear at the thought of facing her mother later. But Courtney would be beside her, holding her hand. They would face Mama down. After all, she, Ann Marie, was past twenty-one and so her own mistress, and darling Papa liked Courtney, and it would all be settled today. She would meet him in the woods, as usual, and they would ride a little, then return to this house and confront Mama. After all, as Courtney said, what could Mama really do? But all at once Ann Marie was cold and trembling. I am a mouse, she thought with regret. That is what the boys call me; Rory told me, but he did not intend to be unkind. He wanted me to be less shy. But no one knows that I never wanted anyone, or loved anyone, but Courtney, from the time we were children together. Dear Courtney, with his wonderful green eyes which could be so quietly merry and then so icily stern, and with his air of strength and indomitable courage. With Courtney she would .be safe forever, and no longer afraid of people, no longer shy, no longer frightened, no longer conscious of secret malice and the sly cruelty which lived in everyone-except, of course, Courtney. And, perhaps, Aunt Elizabeth. She adored her twin Rory, but he was too complex for her understanding, too protean, too, she believed, capricious. At one moment he would be affectionate and thoughtful of her, and the next he would be impatient and teasing. He bewildered her and when Rory saw this he would laugh outright at her, but with good nature and renewed teasing. Rory feared no one, except Papa, and why he should fear Papa was not to be understood. She, Ann Marie, had found him the most considerate and loving of fathers, at least for a long time. It was possible, though Ann Marie did not know it, that she was the only one in her father's world who did not fear him and walk cautiously about him. Even Kevin, the "black Irish" as Joseph called him, was wary of Papa, in spite of his dark and bearish appearance and his obvious and explicit strength, his square and pugnacious face which challenged everyone in a gentlemanly way, and his quiet firm manners and rocklike simplicity. Ann Marie had discovered that Kevin ignored Bernadette and her frequent tantrums, and was not disturbed by them in the least and seemed honestly unaware of them. In consequence Bernadette could not intimidate him and could only fume. Ann Marie was glad that Kevin, seventeen years old, was at home just now, and would be for another week when he would leave for Long Island and his "boating friends," as Papa called them with contempt. Kevin, rarely demonstrative, always compact and apparently living in himself, never afraid, seeming even stronger than his splendid brother, Rory, loved his sister and she loved him dearly in return. For the first time Ann Marie thought of Kevin as an ally, after she and Courtney had faced her mother with the news of their engagement. They could even ask him to be present, looming by their side like a dark but invincible presence. Then Ann Marie was ashamed. No wonder Rory teased her, and Courtney smiled at her sometimes with affectionate surprise at her shyness, and no wonder Kevin would shrug as if she were amusing! They all knew she was a cowardly mouse, a really poor thing, always retreating from others, always blushing if a stranger spoke to her, always shivering inside at shadows, always hiding. She was a woman. She behaved like an infant girl. She had no fortitude at all, and none of the calm strength of dear Aunt Elizabeth. Why was she always so frightened, always on the run? No one had ever really hurt her in her twenty-one years. The nuns at her school had been kind and gentle to her. Her brothers and her father loved her and sheltered her. Mama, it is true, had a hard and sometimes alarming manner, and she always knew where to wound, and was always excitedly happy when she found a target for her malice. But Mama was the only one, and Mama, as Courtney had said, was only a woman after all. Ann Marie glanced at her boudoir clock at her bedside. It was nearly half-past seven, this bright July day. Eagerly, she looked through her window. The Hennessey carriage was rolling up the driveway to the portecochere, and there was Courtney, getting out of the carriage. The girl strained at the window, her heart beating with joy and ecstasy at the distant view of her lover, his head shining palely in the sun. She could hardly bear her rapture. She wanted to run from the house, even in her nightgown, and go to Courtney and throw her arms about his neck and kiss him, and let him hold her tightly as he had done before. She closed her eyes, quickening with delight, with longing, with abysmal passion. When she opened her eyes Courtney was no longer there, and the carriage was going back to the stables. She did not deserve Courtney, she, only a mouse. She must have courage. What a disgrace she would be to Courtney in his professional life, and his social meetings, if she shrank from everyone and hid herself as was her custom! He would be mortified forever and come to despise her. He had told her it was not hard to be courageous, and that she must cultivate some assertion or she would suffer lifelong wretchedness. Today, she would not wait for Courtney to be beside her when she told Mama. She would begin to lose her cowardice today. When she met Courtney, as arranged, she would tell him, with superb serenity, that she had already told her mother, and he would be proud of her. She stood up, in her thin silken nightgown and looked at herself resolutely in the mirror, and she thought she saw a certain firmness there, a certain maturity, in spite of the shadowy morning image of a girl seeming much younger than her actual years, with abashed eyes and a way of averting her head, letting her hair veil her from open revelation. There is only Courtney, she thought, as she turned away. Nothing can ever separate us, except death. We love each other. I am going to be worthy of his love. Her mother breakfasted in bed at nine, luxuriously and with petulant sounds. No one ever intruded upon her there, except Papa, who rarely intruded. Ann Marie, with her new resolution, decided to intrude. Let her heart beat furiously as it did now, and her breath become painful, and her flesh weak. It did not matter. She must begin to be brave. She bathed, brushed her long hair carefully, braided it and tied it severely with a ribbon at her nape, then put on her brown riding habit and boots. She knew she looked best in this plain and austere garb, with the jaunty brown derby on her head, and her gloves on her hands. Her awkwardness became elegance, and she was not unaware of this. She took off her hat and gloves and went down to the ornate breakfast room with its tiled floor and center fountain with goldfish swimming in the bubbling bowl, and its rounded ceiling depicting nymphs and satyrs and secret leafy bowers and little pools of water. The big windows were open on the hot gardens, all scarlet and rose and yellow, and long lawns. The heat of the day was rising. To Ann Marie it was all a vivid sight, rapturously vivid, everything outlined with radiance and a shimmer of holiday and joy. How beautiful the world was, how ecstatic, how significant and heavy with love and delight. How marvelous it was to be young and quivering with anticipation and conscious of one's body, even to the feel of a cuff against a thin wrist. Where could sadness be in this world, what dissonance? The maid informed her that Kevin had already had his breakfast and was out riding. Ann Marie, who had given a thought to having Kevin present when she went to her mother, was at first disappointed, and then resolute. Yes, the time had come for her to be brave. She put her hat and gloves on an empty chair. There was a shaking in her middle but she forced herself to eat and to drink coffee. She glanced very often at the watch pinned to her lapel. Nine o'clock. She would wait until Mama had finished her breakfast. That would be at least half-past nine. The maid said, "Mrs. Armagh had a telegram this morning, Miss Ann Marie. Mr. Armagh will be home tonight at eight." "Oh, how wonderful, Alice," said Ann Marie. She was blissful again. It would be a family gala, in spite of Mama. Fortified by Courtney, Kevin, and her father, what could harm or frighten her? Once one had courage nothing could terrify. In two hours she would be in Courtney's arms, laughing happily and incoherently, her lips against his neck, safe with him, forever rescued and secure. They would ride together in the hot day, talking of their future together as they always did. They would live in a little townhouse in Boston while Courtney completed his studies. Ann Marie closed her eyes, unable to endure the bright gold of her happiness. She said a little prayer of gratitude within herself. When she opened her eyes the morning, the furnishings of the room, the shine at the windows, were almost too much to bear, so brilliant were they, so tender, so promising. Mama, of course, would not suffer a small wedding. After the Nuptial Mass crowds would gather here on the lawns, and there would be lanterns and dancing and music and laughter, and she, Ann Marie, in white silk and lace and with a bridal veil, would dance with Courtney and there would be no one else in the world at all. Perhaps August the tenth. That would give Mama plenty of time. No doubt she would manage a Papal Blessing, too. Ann Marie smiled, and the maid who served her thought, Why, she is really a very pretty young lady! Ann Marie's favorite dog a white setter, stole into the breakfast room, which was forbidden to him, and the girl slyly fed him bits of buttered toast and a strip of bacon, while the maid frowned, disapproving. Ann Marie said, "How did he get into the house, this monstrous creature?" She patted him affectionately and he put a paw on her knee and begged for more tidbits. "Alice, do bring him some more toast." Her voice shook with her joy, and her throat trembled with it. She bent and hugged the dog, and kissed his snowy head and she laughed, and the maid thought, What's come over her this morning? She looks all shiny. Ann Marie said, "Alice, would you ask Mrs. Armagh's maid if I may see my mother? It is very important." While she waited Ann Marie paled and the trembling returned and she sat up rigidly in her chair and told herself over and over that she must be brave, For one cowardly moment she hoped that her mother would refuse to see her "at this hour." Then she castigated herself. There was no time like the present. If her mother did not want to see her now she would go to her anyway, and demand to talk to her. The maid returned and said that Mrs. Armagh would see her daughter, though she felt unwell today. No wonder, thought Ann Marie. She eats too