They said good-bye at the gate. Billy betrayed awkwardness that was sweet to Saxon. He was not one of the take-it-for-granted young men. There was a pause, while she desire to go into the house, yet waited in secret eagerness for the words she wanted him to say.  
“When am I goin' to see you again?” he asked, holding her hand in his.
 
She laughed consentingly.
 
“I live 'way up in East Oakland,” he explained. “You know there's where the stable is, an' most of our teaming is done in that section, so I don't knock around down this way much. But, say—” His hand on hers. “We just gotta dance together some more. I'll tell you, the Orindore Club has its dance Wednesday. If you haven't a date—have you?”
 
“No,” she said.
 
“Then Wednesday. What time'll I come for you?”
 
And when they had arranged the details, and he had agreed that she should dance some of the dances with the other fellows, and said good night again, his hand closed more tightly on hers and drew her toward him. She resisted slightly, but honestly. It was the custom, but she felt she ought not for fear he might misunderstand. And yet she wanted to kiss him as she had never wanted to kiss a man. When it came, her face upturned to his, she realized that on his part it was an honest kiss. There hinted nothing behind it. and kind as himself, it was virginal almost, and betrayed no long practice in the art of saying good-bye. All men were not after all, was her thought.
 
“Good night,” she murmured; the gate under her hand; and she hurried along the narrow walk that led around to the corner of the house.
 
“Wednesday,” he called softly.
 
“Wednesday,” she answered.
 
But in the shadow of the narrow between the two houses she stood still and pleasured in the ring of his foot falls down the cement sidewalk. Not until they had quite died away did she go on. She crept up the back stairs and across the kitchen to her room, registering her thanksgiving that Sarah was asleep.
 
She lighted the gas, and, as she removed the little hat, she felt her lips still with the kiss. Yet it had meant nothing. It was the way of the young men. They all did it. But their good-night kisses had never , while this one tingled in her brain as well as on her lip. What was it? What did it mean? With a sudden impulse she looked at herself in the glass. The eyes were happy and bright. The color that her cheeks so easily was in them and glowing. It was a pretty reflection, and she smiled, partly in joy, partly in , and the smile grew at sight of the even rows of strong white teeth. Why shouldn't Billy like that face? was her unvoiced . Other men had liked it. Other men did like it. Even the other girls admitted she was a good-looker. Charley Long certainly liked it from the way he made life for her.
 
She glanced aside to the of the looking-glass where his photograph was wedged, , and made a moue of distaste. There was cruelty in those eyes, and brutishness. He was a . For a year, now, he had her. Other fellows were afraid to go with her. He warned them off. She had been forced into almost slavery to his attentions. She remembered the young bookkeeper at the laundry—not a workingman, but a soft-handed, soft-voiced gentleman—whom Charley had beaten up at the corner because he had been bold enough to come to take her to the theater. And she had been helpless. For his own sake she had never dared accept another invitation to go out with him.
 
And now, Wednesday night, she was going with Billy. Billy! Her heart leaped. There would be trouble, but Billy would save her from him. She'd like to see him try and beat Billy up.
 
With a quick movement, she jerked the photograph from its and threw it face down upon the chest of drawers. It fell beside a small square case of dark and leather. With a feeling as of she again seized the offending photograph and flung it across the room into a corner. At the same time she picked up the leather case. Springing it open, she gazed at the of a worn little woman with steady gray eyes and a hopeful, pathetic mouth. Opposite, on the velvet , done in gold lettering, was, CARLTON FROM DAISY. She read it , for it represented the father she had never known, and the mother she had so little known, though she could never forget that those wise sad eyes were gray.
 
Despite lack of conventional religion, Saxon's nature was deeply religious. Her thoughts of God were vague and nebulous, and there she was puzzled. She could not vision God. Here, in the daguerreotype, was the concrete; much she had grasped from it, and always there seemed an infinite more to grasp. She did not go to church. This was her high altar and holy of holies. She came to it in trouble, in loneliness, for counsel, , and comfort. In so far as she found herself different from the girls of her acquaintance, she quested here to try to identify her characteristics in the pictured face. Her mother had been different from other women, too. This, forsooth, meant to her what God meant to others. To this she strove to be true, and not to hurt nor . And how little she really knew of her mother, and of how much was and , she was ; for it was through many years she had this mother-myth.
 
Yet was it all myth? She resented the doubt with quick , and, opening the bottom drawer of the chest, drew a . Out rolled manuscripts, faded and worn, and arose a faint far of sweet-kept age. The writing was delicate and curled, with the fineness of half a century before. She read a to herself:
 
“Sweet as a wind-lute's airy strains Your gentle has learned to sing, And California's plains Prolong the soft notes echoing.”
 
She wondered, for the thousandth time, what a windlute was; yet much of beauty, much of beyondness, she sensed of this dimly remembered beautiful mother of hers. She communed a while, then unrolled a second manuscript. “To C. B.,” it read. To Carlton Brown, she knew, to her father, a love-poem from her mother. Saxon pondered the opening lines:
 
“I have stolen away from the crowd in the , Where the statues stand, and the leaves point and shiver At ivy-crowned Bacchus, the Queen of the Loves, Pandora and , struck voiceless forever.”
 
This, too, was beyond her. But she breathed the beauty of it. Bacchus, and Pandora and Psyche—talismans to with! But ! the was her mother's. Strange, meaningless words that meant so much! Her marvelous mother had known their meaning. Saxon spelled the three words aloud, letter by letter, for she did not dare their pronunciation; and in her consciousness august connotations, profound and unthinkable. Her mind stumbled and halted on the star-bright and dazzling boundaries of a world beyond her world in which her mother had roamed at will. Again and again, solemnly, she went over the four lines. They were radiance and light to the world, haunted with of pain and unrest, in which she had her being. There, hidden among those singing lines, was the clue. If she could only grasp it, all would be made clear. Of this she was confident. She would understand Sarah's sharp tongue, her unhappy brother, the cruelty of Charley Long, the justness of the bookkeeper's beating, the day-long, month-long, year-long at the ironing-board.
 
She skipped a stanza that she knew was hopelessly beyond her, and tried again:
 
     “The dusk of the greenhouse is yet
     With quivers of opal and of gold;
     For the sun is at rest, and the light from the west,
     Like delicate wine that is and old,
“Flushes faintly the brow of a naiad that stands In the spray of a fountain, whose seed-amethysts Tremble lightly a moment on and hands, Then dip in their basin from bosom and wrists.”
 
“It's beautiful, just beautiful,” she sighed. And then, at the length of all the poem, at the volume of the mystery, she rolled the manuscript and put it away. Again she dipped in the drawer, seeking the clue among the cherished fragments of her mother's hidden soul.
 
This time it was a small package, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with ribbon. She opened it carefully, with the deep gravity and circumstance of a priest before an altar. Appeared a little red-satin Spanish girdle, whale-boned like a tiny corset, , the pioneer finery of a frontier woman who had crossed the plains. It was hand-made after the California-Spanish model of forgotten days. The very whalebone had been home-shaped of the raw material from the whaleships traded for in hides and tallow. The black lace trimming her mother had made. The triple edging of black velvet strips—her mother's hands had sewn the stitches.
 
Saxon dreamed over it in a of incoherent thought. This was concrete. This she understood. This she worshiped as man-created gods have been worshiped on less evidence of their on earth.
 
Twenty-two inches it measured around. She knew it out of many verifications. She stood up and put it about her waist. This was part of the ritual. It almost met. In places it did meet. Without her dress it would meet everywhere as it had met on her mother. Closest of all, this survival of old California-Ventura days brought Saxon in touch. Hers was her mother's form. , she was like her mother. Her , her ability to turn off work that was such an to others, were her mother's. Just so had her mother been an amazement to her generation—her mother, the toy-like creature, the smallest and the youngest of the pioneer brood, who nevertheless had mothered the brood. Always it had been her wisdom that was sought, even by the brothers and sisters a dozen years her senior. Daisy, it was, who had put her tiny foot down and commanded the removal from the fever flatlands of Colusa to the healthy mountains of Ventura; who had backed the old Indian-fighter of a father into a corner and fought the entire family that Vila might marry the man of her choice; who had flown in the face of the family and of community morality and demanded the divorce of Laura from her criminally weak husband; and who on the other hand, had held the branches of the family together when only misunderstanding and weak humanness threatened to drive them apart.
 
The peacemaker and the ! All the old tales trooped before Saxon's eyes. They were sharp with detail, for she had visioned them many times, though their content was of things she had never seen. So far as details were concerned, they were her own creation, for she had never seen an ox, a wild Indian, nor a prairie . Yet, palpitating and real, in the sun-flashed dust of ten thousand , she saw pass, from East to West, across a continent, the great of the land-hungry Anglo-Saxon. It was part and of her. She had been nursed on its traditions and its facts from the lips of those who had taken part. Clearly she saw the long -train, the lean, gaunt men who walked before, the youths the lowing oxen that fell and were to their feet to fall again. And through it all, a flying shuttle, weaving the golden dazzling thread of personality, moved the form of her little, indomitable mother, eight years old, and nine ere the great traverse was ended, a and a law-giver, willing her way, and the way and the willing always good and right.
 
Saxon saw Punch, the little, rough-coated Skye-terrier with the honest eyes (who had for weary months), gone and abandoned; she saw Daisy, the chit of a child, hide Punch in the wagon. She saw the savage old worried father discover the added burden of the several pounds to the dying oxen. She saw his , as he held Punch by the scruff of the neck. And she saw Daisy, between the of the long-barreled rifle and the little dog. And she saw Daisy thereafter, through days of alkali and heat, walking, stumbling, in the dust of the , the little sick dog, like a baby, in her arms.
 
But most vivid of all, Saxon saw the fight at Little Meadow—and Daisy, dressed as for a gala day, in white, a ribbon sash about her waist, ribbons and a round-comb in her hair, in her hands small water-pails, step forth into the sunshine on the flower-grown open ground from the wagon circle, wheels interlocked, where the wounded screamed their and of flowing fountains, and go on, through the sunshine and the wonder-inhibition of the bullet-dealing Indians, a hundred yards to the waterhole and back again.
 
Saxon kissed the little, red satin Spanish girdle , and wrapped it up in haste, with dewy eyes, abandoning the mystery and godhead of mother and all the strange of living.
 
In bed, she projected against her closed the few rich scenes of her mother that her child-memory retained. It was her favorite way of wooing sleep. She had done it all her life—sunk into the death-blackness of sleep with her mother to the last on her fading consciousness. But this mother was not the Daisy of the plains nor of the daguerreotype. They had been before Saxon's time. This that she saw nightly was an older mother, broken with and brave with sorrow, who crept, always crept, a pale, creature, gentle and unfaltering, dying from lack of sleep, living by will, and by will refraining from going mad, who, nevertheless, could not will sleep, and whom not even the whole tribe of doctors could make sleep. Crept—always she crept, about the house, from weary bed to weary chair and back again through long days and weeks of , never complaining, though her unfailing smile was twisted with pain, and the wise gray eyes, still wise and gray, were grown unutterably larger and profoundly deep.
 
But on this night Saxon did not win to sleep quickly; the little creeping mother came and went; and in the the face of Billy, with the cloud-drifted, , handsome eyes, burned against her eyelids. And once again, as sleep welled up to her, she put to herself the question IS THIS THE MAN?