Mrs. Kotferschmidt was the only passer Barbara met on her way home. Chestnut Street was practically deserted. The school-children’s procession had passed, and the business-men’s brigade had not yet started to move. The shaded avenue, with its green arch of trees overhead, stretched its quiet, leisurely way from Miss Pettibone’s shop to the Grafton house. A shaft of red sun cut its way through the thick leaves, and covered with a glorified light the square, substantial houses that bordered the road. A few children played upon the street, a dog was taking an undisturbed siesta on the sidewalk, and three snowy pigeons were cooing softly as they strutted along the gutter. It was all pretty and peaceful, but quiet, desperately quiet. Barbara’s thoughts went back to the college campus, crowded with chattering students, leisurely professors, hurrying messenger-boys, and busy employees, and full of activity at this hour. What if the Sphinx could see her now, or the Infant, or the dear House Plant, with that plebeian loaf of bread under her arm, on that deserted Western road? She knew what they would say; she could almost feel their glances of pity. Oh, it was a misfortune to be born in a place like Auburn,—a stultifying, crude, middle-western town. She choked down a lump in her throat that threatened her. “I must get to work,” she thought. “Soon,—soon! I shall never be able to exist in Auburn, if I give myself time to think about it.” CHAPTER III THE THEORY OF PHILOSOPHY IT was eight o’clock on a warm morning in June, a few days after Barbara’s return. She rose from the table, where she had been breakfasting in solitude, and sought her mother. It was not easy to find her. The girl looked into the kitchen, passed through her father’s office, and ran upstairs to Mrs. Grafton’s chamber—all without result. “Jack!” she called, stopping at the door of her brother’s room, and severely regarding the recumbent figure in bed. “Jack! I’d be ashamed of lying in bed so late! Where’s mother?” A muffled groan, a tossing of the long swathed figure—and silence. “Jack! Tell me at least, if you know where she is.” The swathed figure rose up in majesty, and a pair of half-open, sleepy eyes became visible in a yawning face. “Well, I’ll be hanged!” said Jack. “If you didn’t actually wake me up to ask where mother is. What do you think I am! A supernatural dreamer, with visions of everything mother does floating around my bed? Think I can see all over the house with my eyes shut?” Jack flounced back, and recomposed his long limbs for slumber. “You ought to be up, anyway, by this time,” declared Barbara, eyeing him with cold disapproval. “There are plenty of things that you could do to help.”