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Field Guide to Visual and Ophthalmic Optics 2nd
Printing Edition Jim Schwiegerling Digital Instant
Download
Author(s): Jim Schwiegerling
ISBN(s): 9780819456298, 0819456292
Edition: 2nd Printing
File Details: PDF, 9.86 MB
Year: 2004
Language: english
 Field Guide to

Visual and
Ophthalmic
Optics
Jim Schwiegerling
University of Arizona

SPIE Field Guides

Volume FG04

John E. Greivenkamp, Series Editor

Bellingham, Washington USA

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 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Schwiegerling, Jim.
Field guide to visual and ophthalmic optics / Jim Schwiegerling.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-8194-5629-2
1. Physiological optics. I. Title.

QP475.S385 2004
612.8'4--dc22 2004020668

Published by

SPIE
P.O. Box 10
Bellingham, Washington 98227-0010 USA
Phone: +1 360 676 3290
Fax: +1 360 647 1445
Email: [email protected]
www.spie.org

Copyright © 2004 Society of Photo-Optical Instrumentation

Engineers

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or

distributed in any form or by any means without written permission
of the publisher.

The content of this book reflects the work and thought of the
author(s). Every effort has been made to publish reliable and
accurate information herein, but the publisher is not responsible for
the validity of the information or for any outcomes resulting from
reliance thereon.

Printed in the United States of America.

Second printing

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 Introduction to the Series

Welcome to the SPIE Field Guides—a series of publications

written directly for the practicing engineer or scientist. Many
textbooks and professional reference books cover optical
principles and techniques in depth. The aim of the SPIE Field
Guides is to distill this information, providing readers with a
handy desk or briefcase reference that provides basic, essential
information about optical principles, techniques, or
phenomena, including definitions and descriptions, key
equations, illustrations, application examples, design
considerations, and additional resources. A significant effort will
be made to provide a consistent notation and style between
volumes in the series.

Each SPIE Field Guide addresses a major field of optical science

and technology. The concept of these Field Guides is a format-
intensive presentation based on figures and equations
supplemented by concise explanations. In most cases, this
modular approach places a single topic on a page, and provides
full coverage of that topic on that page. Highlights, insights, and
rules of thumb are displayed in sidebars to the main text. The
appendices at the end of each Field Guide provide additional
information such as related material outside the main scope of
the volume, key mathematical relationships, and alternative
methods. While complete in their coverage, the concise
presentation may not be appropriate for those new to the field.

The SPIE Field Guides are intended to be living documents. The

modular page-based presentation format allows them to be
easily updated and expanded. We are interested in your
suggestions for new Field Guide topics as well as what material
should be added to an individual volume to make these Field
Guides more useful to you. Please contact us at
[email protected].

John E. Greivenkamp, Series Editor

Optical Sciences Center
The University of Arizona

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 The Field Guide Series

Keep information at your fingertips with all of the titles in the

Field Guide Series:

Field Guide to Geometrical Optics, John E. Greivenkamp

(FG01)

Field Guide to Atmospheric Optics, Larry C. Andrews (FG02)

Field Guide to Adaptive Optics, Robert K. Tyson & Benjamin

W. Frazier (FG03)

Field Guide to Visual and Ophthalmic Optics, Jim

Schwiegerling (FG04)

Field Guide to Polarization, Edward Collett (FG05)

Field Guide to Optical Lithography, Chris A. Mack (FG06)

Field Guide to Optical Thin Films, Ronald R. Willey (FG07)

Field Guide to Spectroscopy, David W. Ball (FG08)

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 Field Guide to Visual and Ophthalmic Optics

Visual optics is a scientific field that brings together many

disciplines. Optical engineering and biology are interwoven to
produce the most sophisticated imaging system known. The
human visual system functions over a broad range of
conditions, adapts to its surroundings and is capable of
quickly processing complex visual information at enviable
speeds. Many of the great names of optical physics such as
Newton, Maxwell, Young, Helmholtz, and Alvarez have all
made significant contributions to the field of visual optics.
This book assembles much of the anatomy, physiology, and
functioning of the eye, as well as the engineering and design
of a wide assortment of tools for measuring, photographing
and characterizing properties of the surfaces and structures of
the eye. Finally, descriptions of our attempts to correct vision,
reverse the aging process, and improve on Mother Nature are
given.

I would like to express my gratitude to several colleagues for

their help with this book. First, I’d like to thank John
Greivenkamp for granting the opportunity to write this book
and for his mentoring and friendship. Second, I’d like to
thank Joseph Miller, whose enthusiasm for engineering is
contagious, and whose ideas are always elegant. Finally, I’d
like to thank Charlie Campbell for passing on a bit of his
wisdom and knowledge and for providing an outlet for my
babbling about Zernike polynomials.

This book is dedicated to my wonderful wife Diana, my son

Max, and my daughter Marie.

Jim Schwiegerling
Dept. of Ophthalmology and Optical
Sciences Center, University of Arizona

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 Table of Contents

Glossary x

Ocular Function 1
Eyeball 1
Cornea 2
Retina 3
Photoreceptors 4
Retinal Landmarks 5
Properties of Ocular Components 6
Accommodation 7
Pupil Size and Dark Adaptation 8
Transmission and Reflectance 9
Axes of the Eye 10
Stiles-Crawford Effect 11
Photopic V(λ) and Scotopic V′(λ) Response 12
Eye Movements 13
Vergence 14
Paraxial Schematic Eye 15
Arizona Eye Model 16
Aberrations 17
Visual Acuity 19
Visual Acuity and Eye Charts 20
Contrast Sensitivity Function (CSF) 21
Emmetropia and Ametropia 23
Far and Near Points 24
Presbyopia 25

Correction of Ocular Errors 26

Spectacles: Single Vision 26
Spectacle Lenses 27
Lensmeter 28
Spherical and Cylindrical Refractive Error 29
Prismatic Error 30
Astigmatic Decomposition 31
Special Ophthalmic Lenses 32
Variable Prisms and Lenses 33
Contact Lenses 34
Radiuscope 35

vii
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 Table of Contents (cont.)

Spectacle and Contact Lens Materials 36

Surgical Correction of Refractive Error 37
Cataract Surgery 38

Ophthalmic Instrumentation and Metrology 39

Purkinje Images 39
Fluorescein Imaging 40
Indocyanine Green Imaging 41
Keratometry 42
Corneal Topography 43
Corneal Topography: Axial Power 44
Corneal Topography: Instantaneous Power 45
Anterior Segment Imaging 46
Wavefront Sensing: Shack-Hartmann Sensing 47
Wavefront Sensing: Tscherning Aberrometry 48
Wavefront Sensing: Retinal Raytracing 49
Wavefront Sensing: Spatially Resolved Refractometry 50
Wavefront Sensing: Reconstruction 51
Zernike Polynomials: Wavefront Sensing Standard 53
Zernike Polynomials: Cartesian Coordinates 54
Zernike Polynomials: Useful Formulas 55
Ophthalmoscopy 57
Retinal Imaging 58
Field of View and Perimetry 59
Retinoscopy 60
Autorefraction 61
Badal Optometer and Maxwellian View 62
Common Ophthalmic Lasers 63
Eye Safety: Laser Sources 64
Eye Safety: Non-laser Sources 65

Color 66
Photometry 66
Colorimetry: RGB and CIE XYZ Systems 67
Colorimetry: Chromaticity Diagram 68
Colorimetry: Primaries and Gamut 69
Colorimetry: CIELUV Color Space 70
Colorimetry: CIELAB Color Space 71

viii
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 Table of Contents (cont.)

Chromatic Adaptation 72
L, M, and S Cone Fundamentals 73

Appendices 74
Aspheric and Astigmatic Surfaces 74
Differential Geometry 75
Trigonometric Identities 76
CIE Photopic V(λ) and Scotopic V′(λ) Response 77
1931 CIE 2° Color Matching Functions 78
1964 CIE 10° Color Matching Functions 80
Stockman & Sharpe 2° Cone Fundamentals 82
Incoherent Retinal Hazard Functions 85
Zernike Polynomials: Table in Polar Coordinates 87
Zernike Polynomials: Table in Cartesian Coordinates 88
Equation Summary 89

Bibliography 99
Index 105

ix
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 Glossary

A Accommodation
A A-constant
a* Color coordinate in CIELAB space
A(λ) Aphakic & infant retinal hazard function
A(θ) Oblique astigmatism
ACD Anterior chamber depth
AK Astigmatic keratotomy
ARMD Age-related macular degeneration
ArF Argon fluoride
Axis Cylinder axis
B Blue channel in RGB space
b* Color coordinate in CIELAB space
B(λ) Blue light retinal hazard function
b (λ ) Color matching function in CIE RGB space
BD Base down
BI Base in
BO Base out
BU Base up
CA, CB, CC Constants for laser exposure calculations
* *
Cuv , Cab Chroma
cd Units of candelas
CIE Commission Internationale de l’Eclairage
CK Conductive keratoplasty
CMF Color matching function
CSF Contrast sensitivity function
Cyl Cylinder power
D Units of diopters (inverse meters)
D Pupil diameter
d Distance
dφ Power error
D65 6500° K reference white light source
E Component of the first fundamental form
Eν Illuminance
F Component of the first fundamental form
f Focal length
fo Spatial frequency
FOV Field of view
G Green channel in RGB Space

x
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 Glossary (Continued)

G Component of the first fundamental form

g(λ) Color matching function in CIE RGB space
H Mean curvature
hab, huv Hue
HDTV High-definition television
Iν Luminous intensity
ICG Indocyanine green
IOL Intraocular lens
J0 Horizontal crossed cylinder
J45 Oblique crossed cylinder
JCC Jackson crossed cylinder
K Conic constant
K Keratometry values
K Gaussian curvature
L Luminance
L Axial length
L Component of the second fundamental form
L*, Lν, Lλ Luminance
L(λ) Long-wavelength cone fundamental
LA LogMAR acuity
LASEK Laser epithelial keratomileusis
LASIK Laser in situ keratomileusis
LOS Line of sight
LCA Longitudinal chromatic aberration
lm Units of lumens
LSA Longitudinal spherical aberration
LTK Laser thermal keratoplasty
lux Units of lumens/m2
M Spherical equivalent power
M Component of the second fundamental form
M(λ) Middle-wavelength cone fundamental
MPE Maximum permissible exposure
N Component of the second fundamental form
n,n′ Index of refraction
nk Keratometric index of refraction
OCT Optical coherence tomography
OD Oculus dexter (right eye)

xi
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 Glossary (Continued)

OS Oculus sinister (left eye)

OU Oculus uterque (both eyes)
P Prism power
PI-PIV Purkinje images
PAL Progressive addition lens
PD Interpupillary distance
PIOLs Phakic intraocular lenses
PMMA Polymethylmethacrylate
PRK Photorefractive keratectomy
q′ Center of rotation of the eye
R Radius of curvature
R Red channel in RGB space
r Radial position in polar coordinates
R x, R y Radii of curvature along the x and y axes
R(λ) Thermal retinal hazard function
r (λ ) Color matching function in CIE RGB space
RGP Rigid gas permeable
RK Radial keratotomy
ROC Radius of curvature
S Snellen fraction
S(λ) Short-wavelength cone fundamental
SEP Spherical equivalent power
SF Surgeon factor
SLO Scanning laser ophthalmoscope
SLT Selective laser trabeculoplasty
Sph Spherical power
t Thickness
t Exposure time
Td Units of troland
U Object vergence
u*,u Color coordinates in CIELUV space
V Image vergence
v*, v′ Color coordinates in CIELUV space
V(λ) CIE photopic response
V’(λ) CIE scotopic response
V*(λ) Stockman & Sharpe corrected photopic response
W Wavefront error
X Tristimulus value in CIE XYZ space

xii
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 Glossary (Continued)

x Chromaticity coordinate in CIE XYZ space

x Horizontal Cartesian coordinate
x (λ ) Color matching function in CIE XYZ space
Y Tristimulus value in CIE XYZ space
y Chromaticity coordinate in CIE XYZ space
y Vertical Cartesian coordinate
y(λ) Color matching function in CIE XYZ space
Z Tristimulus value in CIE XYZ space
z Chromaticity coordinate in CIE XYZ space
z Axial Cartesian coordinate
z (λ ) Color matching function in CIE XYZ space
Znm (ρ, θ) Zernike polynomial
∆ Units of prism diopters
∆E Color difference in CIELAB and CIELUV spaces
∆λ Wavelength interval
∆x, ∆y, ∆z Translation along Cartesian axes
Φ,φ Power
Φa Axial power
Φi Instantaneous power
Φν Luminous flux
Φ(λ) Radiometric power
κ1, κ2 Principal curvatures
λ Wavelength
θ Angle in polar coordinates
ρ Normalized radial position in polar coordinates
τ Transmission

xiii
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 Ocular Function 1

Eyeball

Top View of Right Eye

Cornea – Transparent membrane on the front of the eye. It

contributes roughly two-thirds of the total power of the eye.
Aqueous Humor – Waterlike fluid in the anterior chamber
between the cornea and the crystalline lens.
Iris – Pigmented diaphragm that is the eye’s aperture stop.
Crystalline Lens – Gradient-refractive-index lens that
changes shape to focus on near and distant objects. It
contributes the remaining one-third power of the eye.
Vitreous Humor – Jellylike fluid in the posterior chamber
between the crystalline lens and the retina.
Retina – Photosensitive surface of the interior of the eyeball
that converts light to neural signals.
Fovea – The central, high-resolution portion of the retina.
Optic Disk – The “blind spot” where nerve fibers and blood
vessels enter the eyeball.
Optic Nerve – The bundle of nerve fibers that carry the
information from the retina to the brain.
Sclera – The “white” of the eye, which acts as a protective
outer coating to the eyeball.
Choroid – An internal opaque membrane that absorbs stray
light and provides structural support of the retina.

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 2 Visual and Ophthalmic Optics

Cornea

Cross-Section of Cornea Showing Five Distinct Layers

Epithelium – Thin surface layer of cells 50–100 µm thick on

the front of the cornea that blocks foreign bodies from
entering the cornea and absorbs oxygen and nutrients for the
underlying layers. These cells regenerate quickly if they are
damaged by trauma or surgery.
Bowman’s Membrane – Collagen boundary roughly 12 µm
thick that divides the epithelium and the underlying stroma.
Stroma – Internal material of the cornea composed mainly of
cross-linked collagen bands. The ordering of these bands is
somewhat regular to promote transparency. The thickness of
the stroma is about 500 µm. The collagen fibers are somewhat
regularly organized, introducing corneal birefringence
Descemet’s Membrane – Collagen boundary roughly 4 to
10 µm thick that separates the endothelium and the stroma.
Endothelium – Thin surface layer of cells 5 µm thick on the
back of the cornea that regulates corneal nutrition and
removes excess water from the cornea to maintain its clarity.
Unlike the epithelial cells, these cells do not regenerate.

The cornea does not have a direct blood supply, so it must

exchange its nutrients and waste products through its front
and back surfaces. Damage or interference with these
transfer mechanisms can lead to corneal edema (swelling) and
opacities.

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 Chapter XVI--All Sorts of Bruises
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When I told our English teacher that Mr. Kempwood had helped
me by talking facts to me, Amy was in the room, and that night she
said: “You always try to be truthful, don’t you?”
I said, “Yes,” without looking at her.
Then she looked at the ring S. K. had given me, which I wear all
the time. (Aunt Penelope said I could keep it because he was so
much older.) “Do you think men like truthful girls?” Amy asked next.
Her voice was small. I said I thought they did.
“How do they know you’re not truthful?” she asked next.
 “How do you know there’s a drop of ink in a glass of water?” I
counter-questioned.
“Do you think it shows?” she asked slowly.
I said I felt sure that it did.
“How?” she asked.
“By the loss of faith in those to whom you have lied,” I answered.
I hated to hurt her, but I thought she deserved it, and it was the
truth. I had lost faith in her, and after that occurrence about the
violets I could not trust her.
“It isn’t the first little lie,” I said, “that counts so much; by that
you only hurt yourself. But it’s the ripples from it that make the
cruelness. You see, you take the trust out of the hearts of your
friends, and for a substitute you give four words.”
“What are those?” asked Amy, fingering the fringe that hung
from her overskirt.
“You Can’t Trust Her,” I said. Then Amy picked up a copy of
Vogue and pretended to look at it, and I turned the pages of the
London Sporting and Dramatic News, which is not so entirely given
to lingerie and portraits of Lady Something. I like pictures of dogs
because I know their points, and I found a double page of setters,
which I studied with interest.
I think Amy tried to say that she was sorry about her lies, but I
think she couldn’t. And I’m glad she didn’t, for I would have had to
tell her that the only way to right a wrong is to try to undo it, and
she wasn’t ready to do that at that time. That took a long thinking to
accomplish, and a place in the centre of the stage.
But, to go back to the afternoon of mouse-traps and General
Washington study, as I said, we visited the Mansion; and
“Washington’s Headquarters” it was, most truly, that day.
“Do you smell something good?” asked S. K., as we stood in the
hall. I shook my head.
“Stupid-nosed girl!” he said. “A huge cut of beef is roasting
before the basement fireplace. It is on a spit, and it is being turned
now and again by a fat, hot cook. There’s chatter below stairs. For
this night President Washington is to give a large dinner party, and
the house which was once Roger Morris’, and is now but a
farmhouse, is to hold American celebrities. . . . Listen to the clatter
on the stairs; it is a waiter in a blue satin coat and white satin
breeches. He is carrying wine-glasses, because those were the good
old days before anybody thought Loganberry was good for anything
but painting the barn.
“Listen,” said S. K. I did, and then, in a loud voice, he said: “By
King George’s beaten rascals, I’ve forgot the serviettes!”
And I seemed to see the waiter say this and hear him clatter
toward a high dresser which held the linens. . . . S. K. told me about
how they set the table, and he told me the date of this dinner, which
was July 10, 1790. And then I had a list of the guests, who were
President Washington’s Cabinet “and Ladies”: John and Abigail
Adams, the Vice-President and his wife; Thomas Jefferson, the
Secretary of State; Henry Knox, Secretary of War, and his wife; and
Alexander Hamilton, Secretary of the Treasury, and his wife.
“I am glad to see Alexander Hamilton,” said S. K., squinting in the
room (we pretended, of course, that their ghosts were back a-
dining), “for he has done so much for America. He it was who saw
that the United States must have a central power and central
Government. (My, how the individual States did disagree after the
war, how their trade restrictions did hamper and hurt the bigger
trades and the good of the country!) He it was who got up the
Constitution; and Mr. Jefferson, who sits across the table, the
Declaration of Independence. Pretty nice things both of them, you
know!”
I agreed.
“President Washington is speaking,” said S. K. “He has just told
the servant to be lighter on his heavy-soled shoes (this in an aside),
and then, as a good host, quickly diverts attention by mentioning a
recollection. . . . ‘To think,’ he says, ‘that in September, 1776, I
watched from this point the burning of the city of New York. It was
an awesome and most fearful sight!’ (He pauses; I think he gives
thanks that all the horrors of war are past.)
“ ‘And how many houses were burned, if it pleases you to make
reply to a foolish woman’s question?’ This from Mrs. Knox. President
Washington says that it pleases him ‘most mightily’ to answer
whatsoever question Mrs. Knox may ask him, and replies that one
thousand houses went in that terrible affair, and that that number
was a fourth of the city’s mansions.
“ ‘So vast a place,’ says Mrs. Hamilton. ‘I am wellnigh distracted
when I wander the crowded streets, thinking I may never return
from whence I started!’ ‘We are growing,’ says Thomas Jefferson.
‘Our United States population is nearing three million nine hundred
thousand, and New York now boasts high of its last census, which
states that thirty-three thousand live within its confines.’ ”
I laughed, and S. K. smiled.
“To think of it,” I said, and then asked what New York’s
population is now, and S. K. told me that in 1910 it was four million
seven hundred and sixty-six thousand, and that New York State held
over nine million souls.
Then S. K. told me that Hamilton was buried in Trinity
Churchyard, and that Trinity Church was caught in the big fire, and
rebuilt twice since, but that St. Paul’s had been saved. He told me
he’d take me to both places some day.
Then we started home, and I set my trap and got into riding
things, for I had begun in the latter part of September to ride each
day. I wondered about wearing my bracelet and decided not to. I
remember I put it in the bottom drawer of my bureau under a clean
petticoat and a crêpe de chine chemise. Then I started out.
A crowd from school ride together, and with us is a man who
cares for us. I don’t like going their pace, and so I was almost
relieved when my mount bolted and got ahead of them. The day
was lowering and, although the sort I liked, not, I imagine, a general
favourite, for the drive was almost empty. My horse did not throw
me, but a man who pretended to stop him pulled him cruelly, made
him dance, and the mock-hero, while pretending to help me, pulled
me off my saddle. I was thrown on the ground until I was dizzy, and
then I felt hands on my arms, and heard someone whisper: “Where’s
the bracelet?” The crowd drew near at that moment, the man
accepted thanks, and before I could speak or detain him was gone.
“Stop him!” I shouted. “Stop him!”
But the policeman who had drawn near soothed me with “He
don’t want no thanks, little lady. He just wanted to do you a good
turn, and Lord knows what would of happened if he hadn’t stepped
out!”
“Has he gone?” I asked miserably.
“Sure!” said the officer, smiling. I suppose he thought I was a
sentimental young person and wanted to call him “my hero!” I
didn’t; I wanted to have him gaoled!
Shaking a good deal, I remounted and rode on. I decided I would
finish my ride, although I was bruised and frightened. It was no
ghost that had pulled me from that horse. I felt the impression of his
fingers for hours afterward, and they were strong and real.
I went to bed soon after dinner that night, and at about nine
Jane brought me in a huge box, all covered with white tissue and
wide pink ribbons. It looked very festive, and I could hardly wait to
get it open and when I did--well, it was just like S. K. That is all I
can say about it and--enough!
It was a birthday cake with tiny pink candles all over it, and even
a box of matches lying by the side, ready to do the work. Under this
was a card, and it held S. K.’s wishes, written in a dear way, which
made me very happy.
I couldn’t cut that birthday cake alone and eat a piece; I wouldn’t
have enjoyed it. And so, in spite of Evelyn’s coolness to me, I went
to her room, where she was confined with a cold.
“Evelyn,” I said, “it’s my birthday, and S. K. sent me a cake. I
would love bringing it over here and eating it with you--if you
wouldn’t mind?” She didn’t speak. I felt sorry for her, for since Mr.
Apthorpe stopped coming she has not looked happy, although she
has not been so sharp or complained so much.
Suddenly I heard myself say: “I am sorry I said all that; I had no
business to. You are all being very kind to me and giving me so
much that I should never think of your lacks.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” she said. And then--in a lower voice: “You
know it was true.”
I shook my head. “Not lately,” I added to the shake. And then I
again asked if I might bring over the cake, and she said yes. So I
went back, got into a heavier bath-robe, lit all the candles, and
triumphantly carried it to Evelyn’s room.
Then I thought of Uncle Archie, found he was home, and we sent
an invitation to him. He came sauntering in after several moments,
looked at the cake, grunted “Huh! Where’d you get it?” and sat
down. And I never, up to that time, had such a good time in that
apartment. That began them.
We laughed, and Uncle Archie talked, and it was all as jolly and
cosy as could be. I curled up on a window seat near the radiator,
Uncle Archie sat down before Evelyn’s dressing-table and actually
pretended to do his hair (he hasn’t any), and Evelyn sat up in bed
and laughed--between blowing her nose. And we laughed and talked
and ate cake and looked at the flickering pink tapers a-top my cake.
After a half-hour of this Uncle Archie stood up. “Father,” Evelyn
said, with a little hesitation and some embarrassment, “I wish you’d
come again--like this. I promise never to ask you for a thing in this
room!”
He put his big hand on her head and said, “When I can, I like
you to ask me. It’s only when I can’t that it hurts.” And before me I
saw those two people run up the curtains that hid their souls, and
begin to understand each other. Evelyn looked up at him, and
suddenly she held the back of his fat, pudgy hand against her cheek.
“Father,” she said, “I hope that perhaps we can come to be pretty
good friends.”
 He grunted and left. But I knew he felt a lot and didn’t dare to do
more than grunt, and after he went Evelyn blew her nose very hard.
Then she lay back and silently we watched the little flames of the
candles.
“People are such fools,” she whispered. I nodded, still staring at
the points of light. I had looked at them so long that they almost
hypnotized me. It was really difficult to look away.
She spoke abruptly next, and loud. “You were right,” she said, “in
what you said that day. I have been fretful and cross and my
standards have been wrong. And--all the wrongness of them is
hurting me now. . . .” Then, with gaps and funny interludes of the
old, critical, little part of Evelyn, she told me that Herbert Apthorpe
didn’t like her any more, that he had been hurt by her not being
willing to marry him because she considered him poor, and that he
hadn’t answered a note in which she said she was sorry.
“I saw him,” she ended, “last week with Charlotte Brush, I
suppose----” Then her voice trailed off as she stared up at the
ceiling. Her arms were above her head and her hair spread all over
the pillow in heavy chestnut waves.
“He must care,” I said, getting up and coming over to sit on the
bed.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because you are so beautiful,” I answered, “and your spirit
would be too, if you’d let it. You are dear when you want to be.”
“Do you think so?” she asked with interest, as she turned her
eyes on me. I was afraid she would be annoyed, but she wasn’t.
“Why lately,” I said, “no one could have been more lovely----”
“Not to you,” she answered.
I said I didn’t blame her, that I had been presuming and I knew
it. For I had.
“You helped me,” she said, and then she began to cry. “I am
going to do my best,” she whimpered, between really big sobs, “and
be nice at home anyway--but I wish--I wish I had had sense enough
to measure when----” She didn’t finish, but I knew what she meant.
I put my arms around her and she sat up and let her head rest on
my shoulder.
“You’ll get this cold,” she whispered, after her sobs had a little
quieted. I said I didn’t care. And then she kissed me. And I knew we
were friends for always; the sort of friends that are tight enough to
scrap and stand it, disagree and love.
After a little while more I left, because we both began to be
embarrassed from the manner in which we had revealed what was
way inside. . . . I went to bed thinking of families and of how often
they neglect opportunities to know and love each other. I thought of
Uncle Archie and Evelyn and then I thought how lucky I had been,
for ever since I was three Uncle Frank had loved me, ever so hard;
sometimes very absently, to be sure, but I always knew he cared
and I think he knew I did. Before I slept, he always came in to sit on
the edge of my bed and once and again he’d forget why and then
he’d say, “Ho hum, what am I here for?”
And I’d say, “Good-night, Uncle Frank.”
Then he’d say, “Ho hum! To be sure!” and add “Good-night.”
Then from the doorway he would say, “Ho hum, I love you,” and I
would whisper, most always very sleepily, “I love you----” and I
drifted away on that.
When I was tiny, Chloe began to send me to sleep with the
remembrance that I loved someone and someone loved me, and I
did it to Uncle Frank when I came, and that started it. . . . Perhaps
some people might have thought it funny to hear a bent-shouldered
man with a long beard say, “Ho hum. . . . I love you,” but it was
never funny to me.
I will always see him outlined against the light from the hall--and
silhouetted in that way in my door, and when I do, I hear his voice
telling a sleepy little child that she was loved. And I know it was not
funny. It was beautiful.
 Chapter XVII--Who Caught the Mouse-Trap?
The night after my birthday party, at which the hostess was
clothed in pink pyjamas and a coral bath-robe and one of her guests
wore a crêpe de chine nighty, I slept badly. In the first place I was
bruised and sore from my fall and in the second, frankly frightened. I
kept imagining that I heard things, as you do when the lights are out
and the world is still outside. My furniture creaked as the damp,
night air crept in. A board snapped, then my radiator clanked. I used
my flashlight about two hundred and eight times and then, ashamed
of myself, lay back and decided I would go to sleep and not be silly.
And I did go to sleep.
When I awoke it was quieter than ever and very still, but I knew
by the goose-flesh, hot-and-cold, choked sensation I had, that I had
been awakened by something foreign, perhaps a noise that should
not have been, and that I was not alone. I lay shaking, but with my
eyes closed, and then I felt a light flash across my face. I stirred,
sighed as you do when half-awake, and turned. Then I heard
footsteps near my bureau and a gently, sliding noise which was the
drawer being pulled out. I stealthily reached for my night light, but it
had been set off the table on the floor--put of my reach. And my
flashlight was gone.
I did some quick thinking; in fact I don’t know how I got all the
reasoning I did in those few minutes, but somehow it went in. I
reasoned that if I called I would be hurt before anyone could reach
me, and that I had no chance to get up and get out of the room--
alive. And I decided that if the bracelet was the only thing wanted, I
would not be hurt if I kept quiet; so I adopted the policy of possums
and lots of the little grapevine insects that look so much like twigs or
a bit of leaf--and lay still.
I heard the trap snap and a muttered word that is absolutely
unquotable, and I had to smile, even then! And I was fearfully
frightened--almost sick from fright to be truthful. Then I turned
again and sighed and I heard the man, woman, or whatever it was,
grow quiet. Absolutely heard he, she, or it, hold its breath, wait in
suspense, and the silence of the moment was louder than lots of
noises. It simply throbbed.
Then there was a soft noise and I saw a dark form in front of the
window, heard a scratch of a heel going over the sill and something
scratch. I coughed, there was a quick movement from the window,
and I knew I was alone. It was a cloudy night, with the air still
threatening snow and the court is dusky even in daytime, so I could
not even get an outline of the intruder, which I wanted and so
greatly needed.
I heard a scuffle outside, as if someone were sliding down
against bricks, and then there was silence, throbbing silence once
more, which seemed loud as it so often does at night. . . . I lay very
still for several moments, perhaps it was many minutes; I don’t
know, for I was sick and shaking and I imagine half-fainting,
because the bed seemed to be floating. Even then, I was ashamed
of myself for my lack of courage. When I at last got my nerve back,
I sat up, wiped my forehead, which was wet, mopped off my cold,
damp palms, and felt around for my night light. I found it, about a
yard from my bed, and after I set it back I lit it and looked around.
Nothing was disturbed, but I found that the trap was gone.
“Well,” I thought, “I have you now----” and I stood looking down
at the empty box, and smiling--but I missed it. Something was
disturbed. A piece of wood was torn from the window-sill, a great
piece which had been started in a jag by the holes made that night
of the rappings, and on the remaining splinters of this was a piece of
cloth, quite evidently torn from clothing.
“If I were only a Sherlock!” I thought, as I held it. I didn’t dream
it would ever really help, but I put great faith in the scar that a trap
would leave.
After that I went over to sleep with Amy. She moved as I crawled
in by her, but didn’t wake. I was glad that I didn’t disturb her, for she
had been to a party the night before which lasted longer than my
birthday affair.
In the morning Amy got up without waking me and at ten aunt
came in to sit down on the bed.
“Didn’t sleep very well?” she asked, eyeing me quite anxiously, I
thought.
I said I hadn’t, very.
“Um----” she mused, and then: “Well, we’ll have a nice breakfast
in bed after you’ve been in the tub. Use those bath salts the doctor
gave you, dear--very relaxing. And I’ll hunt something for you to
read.” She was very nice to me and I did so appreciate it.
“Evelyn wanted you to go driving with her; she’s decided to go
out to-day; but I wouldn’t let her call you. Got up and had breakfast
with her father this morning for some reason. Usually we don’t see
her before ten on Sundays, but the young mind is a riddle. . . . Do
you think you can go to sleep again after breakfast?”
I said I’d try.
“I’ll send Jane in to get you a fresh nightdress and to help you
bathe,” said aunt as she stood up, and then she patted my cheek,
murmured something of an engagement, and left. When Jane came
in I nearly fainted. She had her right hand done up, and she told me
she had run an ice-pick into her second finger and that it “hurt
something fierce.” I thought she was pretty cool about it, for at that
time I was sure it was Jane.
“Didn’t know the cook let you touch the refrigerator,” I said, as I
kicked off my slippers and stepped in the tub.
Jane, who was picking up my nighty, explained that the cook had
been out and that she was entertaining a “gentleman friend,” who
had brought a bottle of beer with him. And that sounded queer to
me. It isn’t just the thing one would pick out for an offering to Love,
and besides it is not as common as it once was.
“He’s lucky to have it,” I said, and then: “Do you like ice in beer?
I didn’t know people usually put it in that.”
 Jane grew pink and she looked at me appealingly. I couldn’t
soften, for I knew I must get whatever clues I could.
“Some people likes it in,” she said lamely and then went to get
me a fresh nightdress and a négligé of Amy’s that Aunt Penelope
had told her to let me wear.
She brushed my hair and tied it with great bows of wide pink
ribbon and then tucked me into bed.
“Jane,” I said, “haven’t I always been good to you? I’ve tried to
be.”
“You always have been, miss,” she answered. “You have a
pleasant way with yuh, and Ito and me is always saying how
different you are from Miss Evelyn and----”
“Never mind about that,” I said. “But if you ever wanted anything
very much I hope you would come to me and ask for it--or tell me
about it--instead of borrowing whatever you liked for especial
occasions.”
“That’s what maw always called it,” she said, “just borrowing.
She took in elegant washes and we kids wore them clothes regular.
We certainly missed maw when she died!”
Jane wiped her eyes, and although I felt sorry for her I did want
to smile. She mixed things so.
“Did you like the bracelet,” I asked boldly, “and simply want to
wear it occasionally--borrow it?”
“What bracelet?” she asked, but she coloured hotly. I gave up. I’d
tried to give her a chance, but I saw she wasn’t ready to surrender
without war. After a few more moments of puttering and making me
comfortable, she left and I lay thinking how it could be solved. Then
Ito came in with a wicker breakfast tray which stood on little legs,
and on this was a pink china breakfast set which was cheerful and
easy to eat from. Ito had put a rose between the folds of my napkin
and I was pleased.
“That is so pretty, Ito!” I said. “I wasn’t very hungry, but I am
now----” and then I stopped, my eyes glued to his hand, the right
one, which was bandaged. I gasped.
“You’ve hurt yourself?” I asked.
Ito grinned widely. “Everybody have bandage,” he remarked
pleasantly. “Jane have ice-pick in finger, I sharp knife for benefit of
steak and make mistakes in direction. Everybody stabbed to bleed.”
I giggled a little, it seemed so funny. “Who else?” I asked in
despair.
“Miss Evelyn shut hand in motor door, it smash open,” he went
on. “Mr. Kempwood new servant hurt hand to cut on bottle that is
fall to floor and break. All is hospital.”
I said I was sorry for them, but started laughing. Ito joined me,
and just at that moment Evelyn appeared “Have you seen Amy?” she
asked. I said I hadn’t.
“Had to go to the doctor’s the minute she got up,” Evelyn
explained. “She didn’t say a word to anyone about it, but was
awfully game. It seems she got up to close a window last night--the
wind was frightful, you know--and she was half asleep, I imagine,
and fumbled it, for the window came down on her fingers and she
was really hurt. . . . What, your hand too, Ito?” And she began to
laugh with us.
But no one had the full appreciation of the joke that I had. It
really was funny, although it did disturb me. I began to believe it
was Jane. But I looked at the sample of cloth that had caught on my
window-sill and wondered why Jane would wear that sort of a suit at
night, and why she would go out on the balcony when she might
have left more easily by my door? For while the balcony does lead
past Amy’s room to the pantry window, my door is the first on the
hall which belongs to the sleeping part of the apartment, and to
leave by that would mean running no risks of encountering anyone’s
wakefulness on return. I remembered the scratching noise and
wondered whether I had heard it--what it meant? But I wasn’t to
know for some time after that.
The next week was quiet, but the week after----! Words fail!
There should be one word that implies hair standing on end, cold
chills, shaking knees, goose-flesh, and a heart going about twenty-
seven thousand hard whacks to the minute. I could use that word. I
really could, and--I need it!
 Chapter XVIII--Heart Affairs
About that time things began to stir for Christmas. Packages
came in at all hours, and it was understood that they weren’t even
to be felt, and that only the person to whom they were addressed
could open them. The weather man was evidently in a good humour,
for he predicted “dry, fair weather with light south winds,” and, of
course, almost the greatest blizzard that New York had ever known
appeared to make the landscape match those snow-scene
Christmas-cards with shiny silver on them that drops off. And we had
a splendid time.
The shops were simply gorgeous with their red and green
decorations, and people carried packages, looked tired, but smiled.
It was the greatest fun in the world to go out on Saturday mornings
and scrunch through the snow to the subway, and then delve into
the crowds, who laughed and pushed and hurried with such good
nature. Amy and I could hardly wait for school to close. And in
school notes simply flew, all of them containing confidences about
the furs the writer hoped to get, or the ostrich-feather fan she knew
she was going to get, having seen the long package on the hall
table.
Aunt Penelope told us to make notes of what we wanted, and it
was what we did the Saturday afternoon I met Mr. Apthorpe. Evelyn,
who had not been awfully well since she had that bad cold, sat in
the living-room with Amy and me, and we were enjoying being
together.
“I am going to ask for a Russian sable coat,” said Amy, who was
sucking the point of her pencil and looking down at the pad she
held, “because I think it is a duty to look for the best. Some poet--
I’ve forgotten who--said: ‘Hitch your waggon to a star.’ ”
Evelyn said that one would be a falling star.
“But perhaps you could persuade father that I need one,” Amy
went on. “You have a tactful way and seem to be very chummy with
him lately.”
“Oh, Baby!” said Evelyn (Baby is the family pet name for Amy),
“you should be ashamed of yourself! Why don’t you give father a
Christmas present of not asking for the impossible and not whining
for what he can’t give you?”
Amy’s face was a study in amazement. “But you----” she said.
“Have reformed,” said Evelyn, and then she went back to her
lists. She was working hard, figuring out how little she dared give
people who had entertained her. Amy looked at her, then she
scribbled a note and passed it to me, pretending it was a list of girls
in our school that we were going to ask to tea during the holidays.
“She is mourning for Herbert,” she had written. I nodded and felt
ever so sorry for Evelyn. She had been very kind and unnatural for
ever so long, and it was plain that something had made a big dent in
her feelings. She was ashamed of the way she had let sharpness
grow on her, you could see that, and I think she was going through
a lot in realizing how unpleasant she had often been, and trying not
to be so any more. In a way, any reform is an operation, for you
yourself cut out something that was wrong and didn’t belong in you,
and even a skilled surgeon hurts you when he cuts off anything that
shouldn’t grow on you. I know, for I had a wart removed. My simile
is somewhat mixed, but I still shine most brilliantly in athletics. I
became right forward and captain of our basket-ball team after one
game, but that is beside the point.
After we had written our lists and had had tea and discussed
where the tree should be set, I said I wanted to go walking, and
asked if anyone else did, and, after they refused, I started out. It
was lots of fun to walk, because a little thaw had made a sheet of
ice over everything, and going was a difficult matter. You had to slide
on every little incline, and I stood in our apartment-house door for
quite a while watching those who strolled and--slipped. They would
mince along and then--zip! They’d go for perhaps five feet and end
up by doing a bunny-hug to a tree that stands by the alleyway gate.
And as I stepped forth, I, too, slid and--into Mr. Herbert Apthorpe.
He tried to steady me, almost lost his balance, and then we laughed.
“I’m Evelyn’s cousin,” I said, as I walked by him (I made his
direction mine); “I suppose you’ve forgotten me.”
He said he hadn’t, to be polite, but I knew he had.
“We were speaking of you to-day,” I went on. “Evelyn hasn’t
been well, and she said she wished you would come up.” I stole a
side look at him and saw that his face looked stiff and that his eyes
were steadily fixed ahead. He didn’t look encouraging.
“I am flattered,” he said; and the way he said it made the snow-
banks warm little nesting-places in comparison.
I knew he wasn’t at all flattered, but just said so to let me know
he wasn’t. I tried a little more finesse, and it didn’t work, and then--I
dropped tact, which has never done a thing for me but make me
trip, and relied on crude truth.
“Didn’t you like Evelyn?” I asked. I was sure he did, or I wouldn’t
have said what I then did.
“Very charming girl,” he said stiffly.
“Then why do you hurt her?” I asked. He looked at me after that.
“What?” he asked. I repeated my question. And he echoed it in a
vacant way, only putting “I” in place of “you.”
“You do,” I assured him.
Then he spoke, quickly, to the point, and in a way that left no
doubt as to how he felt. “She turned me off,” he said, “because I
hadn’t enough money. Left me in no doubt about how she felt and
how much she valued what I offered her. That didn’t seem to count.
The fact that my salary is modest did.” And after that he walked so
fast that I almost had to run to keep up with him.
“If she were sick,” I said, “wouldn’t you stick to her, help her--do
anything you could for her?”
I think he considered me an interfering chit, as I was, and hated
me; but he couldn’t very well strangle me, and I could walk quite as
fast as he, so he replied, crisply, coolly, as before, but replied: “Since
it interests you,” he answered, “certainly.”
Then I explained that she was sick. I said she had lived in a place
where money was thought most important, and among people who
attached a false value to it. And I said that that had made her sick
mentally and that he should give her a chance and help her through
that quite as he would through anything that made her body as
miserable. He stopped and faced me.
“She is changing,” I said. “She is sorry, and she has cried before
me about you.”
He caught his breath and then said: “Oh, my dear!” But he
wasn’t speaking to me, I knew, but to Evelyn.
“She’s at home,” I went on, “and alone, or will be, since you can
order Amy off. And she will love seeing you. She has cared so much
that I think that has kept her from getting over this cold. I know it.”
He didn’t speak, but gripped my hand, and then he turned and
hurried back toward the place where we had met. And I knew where
he went from there, before I got home, and Amy told me about it.
I went on feeling sort of silly. The whole thing had taken lots of
nerve, and if I hadn’t cared so much for Evelyn I never would have
done it. I hate explaining what I think about the values of love and
things. It makes me feel wishy-washy. So I was glad to be diverted
by meeting S. K. He was in his car, and leaned out and told me to
get off the grass!
“Can’t you see the signs?” he asked, as I turned to see where the
loud order came from.
“Get in here,” he ordered next, and then his chauffeur, who grins
and seems more human than other people’s chauffeurs, helped me
across the snow-bank, and I was by S. K. He asked me if I’d minded
the heat, and how many vanity cases I expected Santa to give me,
and then he said he had got me a present and that I’d better sit
tight or he’d give it to the janitor.
I looked at his chauffeur’s uniform and asked him where he got
his servants’ duds.
 “Rogers Peet,” he replied. “Why?”
“You are too young to know, S. K.,” I replied. “All of them--
Debson’s too?”
“All of them,” he answered.
I had found out one more thing. “How did your man cut
himself?” I asked next.
“On a piece of Baron Stiegel glass, worse luck,” S. K. answered. I
felt sorry, for that glass was manufactured by Baron Stiegel way
back, ages ago. He lived in South-Eastern Pennsylvania, and the
glass is interesting from the historic as well as artistic viewpoint. S.
K. has lots of things of that sort that are interesting as well as
beautiful.
“If you’ll go riding, we won’t go home,” said S. K. next.
I said I would go, and we turned toward Riverside Drive, which
was lovelier than ever with the snow weighting down the boughs of
the trees, and the banks of the Hudson glittering like white
mountains across the way. Little tots, many of whom wore red coats,
made bright spots in the snow, and their nurses added the black
lines that have to be to make a perfect poster. I loved it and so did
S. K.
Huge motors, with beautiful women in them, rolled softly with
and by us, and some of the windows of the houses and apartments
were beginning to be bright with early lights. We were quiet because
it made you feel that way.
“I love this,” I whispered.
“My dear,” S. K. answered, “I do too.” Then he looked down at
me, and I was warmed by the feeling that he liked me a great deal.
He had begun, even at that time, to be quite as much a part of my
life as Uncle Frank, who, in his funny, forgetting way, has been both
mother and father to me ever since I can remember.
“Next summer,” said S. K., “I am going to Southampton when
your aunt does, and I shall return to town when she does.”
“Uncle Archie may be jealous,” I answered, smiling.
 S. K. started to speak, then stopped, rubbed his hands together,
looked away from me, and frowned. I looked at the beautiful
houses, the crowds, and the passing cars. The little stretch of park,
the wonderful apartments, and the well-dressed people, made a
picture, a picture of happiest, smoothest-living New York. It was
pleasant to look on.
“Suppose,” suggested S. K., “we go in up here and have tea? I
imagine you’ve had it once, but I also suppose that hasn’t dimmed
your bright young appetite.”
I giggled, for it hadn’t. And after we had driven some distance
more, we turned in a big house that is set high on a lot of ground
where you can get very good tea and wonderful things to eat
between drinks. We had scones, and marmalade, and little cakes
that were about as big as big candies and which, like those, came in
cases. I ate quite a lot. S. K. telephoned aunt about where I was,
and we lingered.
I grew confidential after I ate, and told S. K. about Evelyn and
Mr. Apthorpe. I hoped he would think it was all right, and he did. He
said he wished someone would Cook Tour his affairs like that, and
something honestly hurt under my left ribs.
“Yours?” I said, before I knew that I was going to speak.
“Think I’m too old?” he asked, in a queer, tight way.
I said it wasn’t that, and then I told the truth. “I suppose,” I said,
“I am a pig, but I would feel awfully if you got married. I don’t know
how I could stand it, S. K. I am awfully used to you and your
friendship.”
He leaned across the table, covered my hand with his, squeezed
it in a way that reassured me, and said: “I promise I won’t get
married until you say I can. How about that? You know I am to
choose your husband, so your having a little say is only fair.”
I laughed, for I’d forgotten about that.
Then S. K. said: “I beg pardon, Nat; I seem to have borrowed
your hand. Perhaps you’ll want it to-morrow.” After which he folded
my fingers up and laid my hand in my lap. I love his nonsense.
 We had a good time, and he told me about Madam Jumel’s
marriage. The talk had run in that direction, and that, I suppose,
started it. . . . It seemed that she was a great flirt, and I think M.
Jumel did not think she would make a good wife, for although he
made love to her, S. K. said, he did not ask her to marry him. But on
one occasion, when Stephen Jumel returned to his home after a little
absence, he found that Eliza Bowen was ill and, the doctor said,
dying. He went to her bedside, where the lady besought him to
marry her. S. K. didn’t tell me why she wanted to be married so
much, but I suppose she wanted “ ‘Mrs.’ on her tombstone,” as we
say in Queensburg. Anyway, M. Jumel was so touched that the priest
then and there married them, and--the next day Eliza Bowen Jumel
arose from her bed, and went driving in high state. She wasn’t really
sick at all!
“What do you think of that, Nat?” S. K. asked.
I said I didn’t think it was entirely upright.
“Right, my dear,” said S. K., reaching for a buttered scone, and
then he went on to tell me how she had robbed Stephen Jumel,
who, during his absence abroad, had given her power to administer
his affairs. And how, when he came back, he found himself a poor
old man and a dependent. I said it was sad, and I hated Madam
Jumel’s being buried by one of the most beautiful drives in all
America, and having a splendid monument (we had seen it before
we had tea), while her husband’s grave is in one corner of a little
churchyard, neglected and worn, and so hurt by time that only
“Stephen” is left to remind one of a name that once was famous.
Heavy trucks lumber by that spot, and very poor people hurry past,
while their children, half clothed and hungry, scream over their
games, which must be played on the kerb.
“S. K.,” I said, “I wish it might have been different.”
“He bought that plot,” S. K. answered, “when he married Eliza
Bowen. You would not understand, but she had done things that
made good people distrust her. You know, hard as it may seem, Nat,
you usually give yourself the dose that makes the pain.”
 I knew that, and said so.
Then I asked why people, such great people, should have come
to visit a woman who was not all that she should have been.
S. K. said they didn’t, and that the tales of her entertaining were
largely fictitious--meaning made up. He said that during the time the
Bonapartes were in America she was abroad, so that plainly she did
not entertain them; and in other cases dates prove the same tale.
Abroad, he said, it was different. That broken French from an
American was quaint, while bad English from an American was
common, and made the speaker so. And he said that some of her
little girl phrases, which were not nice, had clung to her, and, with
what people knew of her here, spoiled her chances for social
success. He said her own niece, who lived with her, said she never
entertained the Bonapartes, and was much alone. But--she kept a
table with glass and bits of silver on it, spread, she said, as it had
been for the dinner she gave to Joseph Bonaparte.
Then S. K. asked me if I’d ever read “Great Expectations,” and
told me of an old woman in there whose lover had failed to appear
at the wedding, and how she wore her wedding clothes for years
after and let the wedding feast stay on the table untouched.
“Rodents crawled from the cake,” said S. K., “dust lay on all the
china, cobwebs hung from the candlesticks, and--she waited. And I
think Dickens visited America before he wrote this. Do you suppose
he saw Madam Jumel’s table and got his idea there?”
I said I didn’t know, but it interested me a lot.
Then, because it was getting late, we had to start off. I didn’t
want to go because I’d had a good time with S. K. and hated to end
it. I always do have a good time when I’m with him, and I always
hate to have to stop!
 Chapter XIX--Two Surprises
The week before Christmas was packed tight with hurry, tired
bones, fun, and, for me, a short worry and two surprises, one of
which made my disquiet. And the week after held indigestion, more
tired bones, more fun, and one surprise. And they each held a
mysterious happening which no one could explain. The second of
these being so serious that my stories of hearing things at night
were at last taken seriously. Even the rappings which they had all
heard had not made them see that anything out of the ordinary was
really happening, until the after-Christmas affair convinced them.
Feeling this, I had given up speaking of what occurred to bother me.
It was like telling of the huge fish you HONESTLY really almost
landed, and then having the listener say: “Oh yes. But I suppose he
got away?” and--smile. It shut you up. It was that way with my
affairs.
After Evelyn began to say, “How many brigands slept on the
balcony last night, Natalie?” or, “I heard strange noises at five this
morning. It might have been the milkman, but Natalie seems to
think it was a thug who came in to steal her flashlight!”
Perhaps I would say: “It was gone!” and then everyone would
laugh, for of course they thought I had mislaid it; and naturally
thought so, since a real thief is rarely satisfied with one flashlight
costing a dollar and forty cents. Just as I decided to stop assuring
them that something was happening (it seemed futile to keep up--
they wouldn’t believe me) Evelyn stopped teasing me. I think Doctor
Vance’s saying I wasn’t especially well made that. And I was glad to
have it cease. It wasn’t a joke to me!
As I said, the week before Christmas was a hurried time. Aunt,
Evelyn, and Amy gave lots of people presents and I helped them
wrap them up. It was great fun. The red and green tissues, the
beautiful ribbons and the cunning stickers made things so pretty that
you never thought of the bother. But I will acknowledge that I tired
of the flavour of the stickers, which was assertive and clung. I
believe any stationery house would make a fortune if they
manufactured Christmas seals that tasted as nice as they look.
I said so to S. K. one afternoon a few days before Christmas. He
had come up and we were in the library. Amy was playing the
victrola, between going to the hall to inspect the packages which
kept arriving so steadily; Evelyn was writing thank you notes for
things she hadn’t received! She said she always did, because it
saved the bother after Christmas, when parties were scheduled for
almost every minute; and that it was quite simple since all you had
to do was to say: “Your beautiful gift means so much to me, and I
shall always treasure it.” But Amy told me one year Aunt Penelope
mailed these before Evelyn knew it and a lot of the thanked people
hadn’t come across. Naturally it was awkward and took a great deal
of talented explaining.
But, to go back to that afternoon. S. K. said: “That’s one thing
you haven’t tried--glue.” And I knew he meant putting it in the
bracelet box. He smiled at me in a teasing way after that, for even
he didn’t take me seriously then.
“No,” I answered, “but I will, or something better for leaving a
trail. It’s a good idea.” I was really taken with it and decided upon
red paint, as I tied up a set of bridge scores that Aunt Penelope was
going to send to a cousin of hers who lives miles from nowhere on a
Western farm.
Then I attacked a lot of nut bowls and crackers that Evelyn had
got at a bargain from a gift shop. Amy tried to crack a peanut with
the crackers, and even its fragile shell was not dented, but Evelyn
explained that “It was the thought” that counted. Personally, I
decided that the kind of thoughts one would have on using those
things would count against you--if Heaven’s Gate Keeper were
listening, but I didn’t say so.
“Got sixteen of those last Christmas,” said S. K.
“I had planned to give you one!” I gasped, and I really did it well.
 “My dear,” he said, growing quite excited, “you know I was
joking. I should love having you give me one! I’m simply a stupid
fool, that’s all and----” And then I laughed, and Evelyn, who had
stopped writing to listen, did too, for she had helped me get my
present for S. K.
“Come here, you humbug!” he ordered. I came. He reached up
and pulled me down on the lounge beside him, very hard. “What’ll I
do to her, Miss Evelyn?” he asked, as he frowned down on me.
Evelyn said I was hopeless and that she thought nothing short of
arsenic, and a large dose of that, would have any effect.
“Oh, well, we’ll let her live a small while longer,” he temporized,
and I slipped my hand in his because I am always a little sorry when
I tease him, although it is fun to do. “I’ll tell you,” he went on. “We’ll
have bread and butter, and that ONLY, with tea for a month.”
“Then I won’t come down and have tea with you,” I replied, “for
I can get that kind of a hand-out here.”
“So, you slangy young thing, I am loved for my food?” he asked.
He looked quizzical, but I thought he wondered, and of course I told
him I loved him for himself. Evelyn was amused, which was silly of
her, because it was nothing to be flippant about.
“Shall I leave the room?” she asked, in an attempt to be funny.
And then, for the first time, I realized that S. K. was not so much
older than I, after all, and that perhaps he, as well as other people,
might not understand. He had seemed like Uncle Frank, or Bradly-
dear; like someone who belonged to me, and to whom I belonged. I
had adopted him into the family-side of my heart because he had
been so good to me, and of course for the same reason I loved him.
But I wondered then, whether my saying so sounded silly, and it
made me grow pink and look down.
But S. K. helped me out as he always does.
“No,” he answered, and I felt that he was looking at me and in a
very kind way, “that is not the kind of love Nat means. Hers has a
sort of small girl, open-air, baseball flavour that is attractive, but--not
right for a flirtation. When she learns the other sort, you may leave
the room--and quickly, please!”
Evelyn laughed, and went on scribbling. I could see that her
remark had been idle, and that she thought S. K.’s was too, but I
looked up. S. K. was looking down at me and I felt frightened and
very happy, and quite hot but a little chilly; and I began, right then,
to know that I did care a great, great deal for S. K. and that--he
cared for me.
I didn’t need the thing he blurted out in a whisper, to be sure.
For his eyes had said it. What sounded as if it were shaken from him
was: “My dearest?” and it came as a question, and after it he bit his
lips, grew slowly red and looked away. I knew he was sorry he had
spoken, and I was sorry too, for it frightened me, and because I did
not know what to do.
I got up and began to wrap up Christmas things and S. K. did not
watch me as he usually does, but looked into the fire.
“Thought you were going to punish her,” said Evelyn in that level
voice which people use when they’re writing hard or playing the
piano softly.
“Decided it was futile,” he answered; and I saw that he was
upset too, for he spoke stiffly. And then, after refusing tea and
making a light mention of an engagement, he left. And I went on
wrapping up packages, but my hands shook.
“Why didn’t you see him out?” Evelyn asked.
I replied that Ito was in the hall and that I didn’t see any reason
for doing so.
Then Amy came in and said that Herbert was coming, and that
meant that she and I had to get out. For ever since that afternoon
that I bumped into him while attempting to walk, he and Evelyn
have been discussing inner draperies and how to keep cooks, and
the right proportion for a rent, and where to live, for they got
engaged that day. Amy told me about it. She said it was dramatic
and exceedingly interesting, but that they ordered her off just when
she most wanted to stay.
 It seemed he bolted in the room, and two feet from Evelyn
paused. Amy said he was absolutely white and spoke in a deep,
shaken voice. She really described it beautifully. He said: “You have
been ill!”
And she said: “Oh, Herbert,” and began to cry. Then she
stretched a hand out to him, and he put his arms around her and
said: “My darling!” Amy, who had been sitting in a high-backed
Italian chair, naturally got up to look over it, and then Evelyn ordered
her off. She whispered: “Please, Amy--go----” and Amy felt that she
had to. But she was annoyed at Evelyn, for she wasn’t bothering
anyone, and she said it was better than movies or the theatre, for
she knew the principal characters, and she said that they were
acting wonderfully.
But, to go back; after I left them that afternoon I went to my
room. Amy had to do some telephoning and stopped outside of the
library door to do it. She said she liked that telephone better, but I
think she did it because it annoys Evelyn. Of course the most loving
sisters occasionally positively work to think up ways of annoying one
another; it belongs to them just as much as does taking each other’s
clothes, or borrowing hats.
In my room I sat down by the window and I did not light the
lights. . . . I wanted to think and in the half-light it seemed easier for
the sort of reverie in which I was going to indulge. For, if you can
understand it, I was frightened. I loved S. K., I knew that; but I
didn’t want to plan a house as Evelyn and Herbert were and to have
people go off to leave us alone to do it. Sometimes Herbert kisses
Evelyn when they are alone, I am quite sure of it, for I heard Evelyn
say: “Don’t, dear--someone is coming,” as I came in one day. And
Amy assured me that that was a part of being engaged. I can’t quite
explain, because I am stupid about making words carry my
thoughts, but at that moment I very much wanted to be back in
Queensburg, playing ball, walking, or riding. I wanted Willy to say,
“Come out and play catch, Nat!” and not to be worried about things
that loomed ahead, things that I was afraid must come before I was
ready for them. . . . But--curiously, with all that fear, I had that
happy but sad, and lovely but hurting sensation that neither Bradly-
dear nor Uncle Frank had ever had. I think my mother would have
understood it, and I know she could have helped me. I tried to shut
my eyes and pretend she could talk to me, but it only left me a little
choked and wanting her fearfully. I think, perhaps, if she had been
there, that I would have put my head down on her shoulder and
cried--although I never do cry--and that she would have said, “My
dear little girl! My baby!” which is strange, since I cannot remember
a word of hers and possibly she never did call me “My dear little
girl,” or “My baby.”
After a while Amy came rustling in to show me a new frock, and
made a good deal of noise and turned on all the lights, which helped
me. And then I got dressed for the evening, and we heard Uncle
Archie come in.
“I am going to take Evelyn’s place with him,” Amy said piously as
she looked at her back in a cheval glass. “Evelyn has absorbed all his
attention recently, but I’m going to cut her out. I think he’s a dear.”
I agreed with her.
“And I think it looks so sweet to see a father and daughter
devotedly attached,” said Amy. Again I agreed and loudly, for I
thought Uncle Archie would be pleased by her paying him attention,
as he was by Evelyn’s doing so, and I knew that Amy had to
limelight herself before she enjoyed doing anything kind. She had to
occupy the centre of the stage. She’s built that way. That is really
the reason she confessed about the violets, but that comes later.
There were guests at dinner, and Ito spilled soup, but otherwise
it was uneventful. And afterward Amy went out to a little party to
which I had not been asked, Evelyn went out with Mr. Apthorpe,
aunt and her guests played cards in the living-room and I went to
mine again--to write letters.
I thought writing to Uncle Frank would help me, but it didn’t. I
knew that if I had wanted advice, he probably would tell me how
long a grasshopper woos its mate before marriage, instead of talking
to me about mine. I love him, but his soul is steeped in bugs. The
person I wanted to ask help from was S. K., but doing so seemed
odd under the circumstances.
At nine I heard a noise, a funny noise. I got up and turned off
my light and waited. After a few moments I heard a scrape on the
side of the building and I turned on the electrics suddenly. At that,
something slid down against the outside wall. I heard it. Whatever it
was had slipped down the side of the house, scraping all the way. I
again turned out the lights and going to the window peered out. In
the dim light of the court seeing was difficult, but I did manage to
make out a black mass on S. K.’s balcony and then I heard a window
slide up and this disappeared. And, without picking up a scarf or a
wrap, I hurried out, ran down the balcony until I reached the fire-
escapes, which are in front of the main hall windows and are always
well illuminated by them. I ran down these, and it seemed like old
times, for the going was not steady. Of course, the rail was just a
rod, the building was high and the steps steep. I realized that New
York had tamed me, for by the time I reached S. K.’s window I was
glad to stop.
Here I kicked a hole through the window-pane, knocked out the
glass and entered. S. K.’s man was evidently washing up things, for
he came toward me with a towel and a glass in one hand.
Panting a little, I told him I’d seen a man go in the office window.
S. K. has a sort of office in the room that corresponds to mine in his
apartment. Debson immediately put down the glass, told me to be
quiet, settled his shoulders, and began the hunt. He was brave, but I
could see that he was frightened, for he was white.
He whispered a direction for me to the library, and there I went.
I tiptoed, quite naturally, and S. K. was surprised to see me.
“Nat!” he gasped, and then he stopped, for I gestured for silence,
just as hard as I could. . . . To make a long story short, there was no
one, and I suppose both those men thought I was crazy, and S. K.
had to get a new glass for that window I kicked in. But he was nice
about that.
“I did see someone come in here,” I said lamely.
 “Did you hear anything, Debson?” S. K. asked. Debson shook his
head.
“Not since Maggie left, at least, sir,” he qualified. “She went to
the balcony to shake a duster, I think, sir, although I am not sure.”
“That was probably it,” said S. K. He dismissed Debson and then
said: “Sit down, Nat.” And I did. Then he told me that he thought it
was fine and brave of me, and that he appreciated it, although my
going without a wrap worried him, and my Paul Revereing it down a
fire-escape was a dangerous practice for night--or any other time,
for that matter. And I promised him I wouldn’t do it again, unless
there was a fire.
Then S. K. said: “Nat, can you stay a little while? I want to talk to
you.”
I said I could, and he asked me to come over and sit by him on a
wide davenport which stands before his big fireplace.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “that you know it, because I didn’t mean to
tell you.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I answered, although it wasn’t; I was
frightened and unhappy all over again, and my heart was pumping
fearfully.
“No,” he answered, “it is not all right. It is all wrong. You are
seventeen, and two or three good-time, free years are ahead of you-
-must be ahead of you. I wouldn’t for the world disturb your peace,
make you think of anything that would turn you older. I love having
you frankly friendly, treating me as a chum. I am afraid I have
spoiled things.”
I said he hadn’t, although he really had.
“But you were disturbed by the way I looked at you,” he went on;
“what I said. I didn’t mean to, Nat. It shot out. . . . I was weak at
that moment, but I promise I won’t be again. I assure you, you
needn’t be worried about it,” he ended stiffly. “I will never bother
you with it. In fact, now it would be as unsatisfactory to me as it
would be to you.”
 That was a very cool statement for S. K. I didn’t understand it,
and it hurt. And that and the feeling that perhaps our tight
friendship was gone made me ache. Then I looked at him and saw
that he felt badly too. He smiled as our eyes met, but not happily.
“I had planned this very differently,” he said. “We were going to
be better friends all the time, you know, and then one day, when
you were several years older and a little tired of a world that held
only parties and fluffy frocks, I would tell you that I had liked you
ever since you were a school-going youngster, and I liked to dream
that you would find that I had come to mean something in your
heart and that----” And then S. K. stopped abruptly and said: “Nat, I
shouldn’t be allowed loose.”
I said: “Oh yes you should, S. K.!” And I found the greatest cure
for a heartache, and that is finding someone you love suffering from
the same thing. I immediately quite forgot mine and thought of S.
K.’s. And I did something then that sounds silly, but which wasn’t,
and didn’t seem so at the time. I moved closer to S. K. and rested
my cheek against his coat-sleeve. He fumbled for my hand, and
when he found it I squeezed his hard.
He said I was a “ripping little pal,” and his voice was not awfully
steady, and so I think he really thought so. And in that position,
where I did not have to meet his eyes, and yet where I was
strengthened by his touch--for it did strengthen me--I told him how
I felt.
“S. K. dear,” I whispered, “I want some more baseball, and not to
have to think of love and such stuff.”
“I know, dear,” he answered.
And then I said: “This afternoon I felt as I did before I did my
first really high dive. Wasn’t that silly? For there’s nothing to be
frightened about.”
“Not a thing, dear,” he replied.
And then I told him about wanting my mother, and the garden,
and how it made me feel, and that I had felt that way when I began
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