unseen. When they see that it is about to open, they fling open their
doors, wishing above everything else to share that beauty with their
fellows. Their children are sent to announce, as you heard Touclé say
tonight, 'The cereus is going to bloom.' And all up and down this end of
the valley, in those ugly little wooden houses that look so mean and
dreary to you, everywhere people tired from their day's struggle with
the earth, rise up and go their pilgrimage through the night . . . for
what? To see something rare and beautiful."

She stopped speaking. On one side of her she heard the voice of the
older man say with a quiver, "Well, I can understand why your neighbors
love you."

With entire unexpectedness Marsh answered fiercely from the other side,
"_They_ don't love her! They're not capable of it!"

Marise started, as though a charged electric wire had fallen across her
arm. Why was there so often a note of anger in his voice?

For a moment they advanced silently, pacing forward, side by side,
unseen but not unfelt by each of the others.

The road turned now and they were before the little house, every window
alight, the great pine somber and high before it. The children and
Touclé were waiting at the door. They all went in together, shaking
hands with the mistress of the house, neatly dressed, with a clean,
white flounced apron. "Nelly's garment of ceremony!" thought Marise.

Nelly acknowledged, with a graceful, silent inclination of her shining
blonde head, the presence of the two strangers whom Marise presented to