THE MOTHER

Mary was resting in the chair beneath the southern windows of the sun-parlor of the Doctor's bungalow.He had built his home of logs cut from the mountainside.Its rooms were supplied with every modern convenience and comfort.Clear spring water from the cliff above poured into the cypress tank constructed beneath the roof.An overflow pipe sent a sparkling, bubbling and laughing through the lawn, refreshing the wild flowers planted along its edges.

The view from the window looking south was one of ravishing beauty and endless charm.Perched on a rising spur of the Black Mountain the house commanded a view of the long valley of the Swannanoa opening at the lower end into the wide, sunlit sweep of the lower hills around Asheville.Upward the balsam-crowned peaks towered among the clouds and stars.

No two hours of the day were just alike.Sometimes the sun was raining showers of diamonds on the trembling tree-tops of the valleys while the blackest storm clouds hung in ominous menace around Mount Mitchell and the Cat-tail.Sometimes it was raining in the valley--the rain cloud a level sheet of gray cloth stretching from the foot of the lawn across to the crags beyond, while the sun wrapped the little bungalow in a warm, white mantle.

Mary had never tired of this enchanted world during the days of her convalescence.The Doctor, with firm will, had lifted every care from her mind.She had gratefully submitted to his orders, and asked no questions.

She began to wonder vaguely about his life and people and why he had left the world in which a man of his culture and power must have moved, to bury himself in these mountain wilds.She wondered if he had married, separated from his wife and chosen the life of a recluse.He volunteered no information about himself.

When not attending his patients he spent his hours in the greenhouse among his flowers or in the long library extension of the bungalow.More than five thousand volumes filled the solid shelves.A massive oak table, ten feet in length and four feet wide, stood in the center of the room, always generously piled with books, magazines and papers.At the end of this table he kept the row of books which bore immediately on the theme he was studying.

Beside the window opening on the view of the valley stood his old- fashioned desk--six feet long, its top a labyrinth of pigeon-holes and tiny drawers.

He pursued his studies with boyish enthusiasm and chattered of them to Mary by the hour--with never a word passing his lips about himself.

Aunt Abbie, the cook, brought her a cup of tea, and Mary volunteered a question.

"Do you know the Doctor's people, Auntie?" she asked hesitatingly."Lord, child, he's a mystery to everybody!All we know is that he'sthe best man that ever walked the earth.He won't talk and the mountain folks are too polite to nose into his business.He saved my boy's life one summer, and when he was strong and well and went back to Asheville to his work, I had nothin' to do but to hold my hands, and I come here to cook for him.He tries to pay me wages but I laugh at him.I told him if he could save my boy's life for nothin' I reckon I could cook him a few good meals without pay----"Her eyes filled with tears.She brushed them off, laughed and added: "He lets me alone now and don't pester me no more about money."Her tea and toast finished, Mary placed the tray on the table, rose with a sudden look of pain, and made her way slowly to the library.

A warm fire of hardwood logs sparkled in the big stone fireplace.The Doctor was out on a visit to a patient.He had given her the freedom of the place and had especially insisted that she use his books and make his library her resting place whenever her mind was fagged.She had spent many quiet hours in its inspiring atmosphere.

She seated herself at his desk and studied the calendar which hungabove it.A sudden terror overwhelmed her; she buried her face in her arms and burst into tears.

She was still lying across the desk, sobbing, when the Doctor walked into the room.

He touched her hair reproachfully with his firm hand.

"Why, what's this?My little soldier has disobeyed orders?" "I don't want to live now," she sobbed.

"And why not?"

"I--I--am going to be a mother," she whispered."So?""The mother of a criminal! Oh, Doctor, it's horrible! Why did you let me live? The hell I passed through that night was enough--God knows! This will be unendurable.I've made up my mind--I'll die first----"

"Rubbish, child! Rubbish!" he answered with a laugh."Where did you get all this misinformation?""You know what my husband was.How can you ask?""Because I happen to know also his wife--the mother-to-be of this supposed criminal who has just set sail for the shores of our planet--and I know that she is one of the purest and sweetest souls who ever lost her way in the jungles of the world.If you were the criminal, dear heart, the case might be hopeless.But you're not.You are only the innocent victim of your own folly.That doesn't count in the game of Nature----""What do you mean?" she asked breathlessly.

"Simply this: The part which the male plays in the reproduction of the race is small in comparison with the role of the female.He is merely a supernumerary who steps on the stage for a moment and speaks one word announcing the arrival of the queen.The queen is the mother.She plays the star role in the drama of Heredity.She is never off the stage for a single moment.We inherit the most obvious physical traits from our male ancestors but even these may be modified by the will of the mother.""Modified by the will of the mother?" she repeated blankly.