fain would follow her--the mistress of that guarded mansion, the wife of
a young sea god, the mother of a new race.

But, most of all, I like to think of the children. And I have but one
wish for a long life, which might otherwise weigh upon me, that the
years may bring back to the world those prophets from a hidden land,
those young voices crying from the wilderness--the children of Olaf and
of Nancy Greer.




WHITE BIRCHES

I


A woman, who under sentence of death could plan immediately for a trip
to the circus, might seem at first thought incredibly light-minded.

You had, however, to know Anne Dunbar and the ten years of her married
life to understand. Her husband was fifteen years her senior, and he had
few illusions. He had fallen in love with Anne because of a certain gay
youth in her which had endured throughout the days of a dreadful
operation and a slow convalescence. He had been her surgeon, and,
propped up in bed, Anne's gray eyes had shone upon him, the red-gold
curls of her cropped hair had given her a look of almost boyish beauty,
and this note of boyishness had been emphasized by the straight
slenderness of the figure outlined beneath the white covers.